The Weakest part

Slam poetry

When I was four, I didn't understand the concept of time. I was unaware that sometimes you don't have very much of it, and sometimes you don't get to choose how you use it. All I knew was that I thought I had time.

As a kid you never really think about the future. You think about monkeys or that little butterfly that landed on your nose when you weren't paying attention. You don't think that some day your life may not be the way it was. Because you're just a kid, and kids aren't supposed to think those things.

When I was four I got my first broken bone. Two to be exact. We were in the car driving home, and the man in front of us stopped unexpectedly. Drunk. He thought that drinking could save his life from the misery but he ruined two other precious lives. And didn't blink. I remember watching my mom from the backseat, her lips bloodied and her eyes as swollen as the bee sting I had on my arm when I was 3. If that is a sight that a four year should see... I couldn't flinch. My arms were pinned to my sides like ears of corn strapped against the stalk, no escaping from my vision as I watched her bleed. Tell me, is that a sight a four year old should see. My limbs felt numb but I couldn't tell if it was shock or pain my eyes were open wide as I stared at my mother in the front seat, unconscious. And I watched the man try to get away before he passed out on my pavement. Drunk. As if drinking was a solution that had instead caused more problems that would ruin his life. I could see it all with my big, wide, open eyes staring desperately at anything that moved because god knows that moving meant life and she couldn't be dead. Tell me is that something a four year old should think. I watched as they lifted me from the seat, when they came. Took me to a nice white bed and rolled me away, unable to scream as they left her behind. Unable to reach for the one person who had carried me for months on end, who loved me like no one else ever would, like my father never did, never cared to. Unable to penetrate their ears as they led me to a place that wasn't with her please tell me is that something a four year old should live through.
I don't remember the ride to the hospital. Only the bright lights in my eyes as I opened them and denied them closure once the top lid had been pried from the bottom, afraid that if I blinked I'd see her ghost. Because isn't that what happens when people die? My arms were filled with needles and tubes and my legs were wrapped in blue, no need to tell me it was a cast because I knew when I saw it that everything was not okay, how could it be okay if I was alone. If I was broken. So I closed my eyes.
When I opened them again I was not as alone as I thought, my mother in the bed beside mine was awake. Was alive. Was alive. Was alive. Wasn't dead. Was breathing beside me and no feeling will ever come close to what I felt when I realized I wasn't alone.
Scared, I reached my hand to touch hers but as a child my arms couldn't reach, as a child I didn't have the strength to call out due to the anesthetic, couldn't tell her how important it was that she was alive. Because what does a child do when they have no one left.
I still think about it to this day. The months of being wheeled around like a cripple, until I could stand, and then finally without the boots that weighed me down like anchors. The blood running down my mothers face still haunts my dreams and sometimes when I wake up I don't know that it's over. That it's okay. Tell me is this how it feels to have ptsd? To believe that if you wake up you'll find that it's still happening, and maybe the dream is better because can't dreams be changed? Tell me is this something a teenager should dream in their sleep? Sometimes I look at my mother, and wonder how her life would improve if she didn't limp at every given moment, didn't cry out in pain because it hurts even now. How it could be possible to go back and make sure that it was me and not her who suffered. Because even after all of it I still believe that it should have been me.
And yes I blame him. The man on the pavement, who decided that beer was a better choice than safety. Decided that drinking was a better offer than a child's life, and memories. That a mother's legs weren't important enough to set down the liquor for a moment and look at least once at the road, tell me why must people be this way.
I still think about it sometimes, as if it's happening over and over. And sometimes it doesn't stop. Doesn't stop. Doesn't stop. Doesn't stop. Doesn't stop. She's alive. She's alive. She's alive. She. Is. Alive. But she is not happy. And that defeats the purpose of living.