MY MOTHER DOESN’T PICK ME up. She doesn’t answer her phone when I call, either. This is strange. My mother has never been late picking me up on a day I have a music lesson, no matter how bombed she is. On lesson days, she’s there. Sometimes she’s even early. Dread runs through me as I sit on the school steps and wait. This sinking is just leveling me. I’m trying to hold on to the thought that maybe she’s sleeping. Maybe she was so hung over, so sick and sore, she took a couple of Xanax and a Vicodin and washed them down with whiskey, because the pain and the memory loss were finally too gnarly for her to deal with. It’s tough to believe, though. She’s just too darn committed to me and music and art. Finally, after an hour, I walk home. It’s probably a thirty-minute walk. I put my earphones in and crank some RZA. I should be halfway through my piano lesson right now. Instead, like ten minutes into my walk, I take my backpack off and pull my camcorder out. There’s this piece I’ve been thinking out for weeks, and I’m pretty sure I’ve got it down now.
