Tuesdays and Fridays

It was always Tuesdays and Fridays.

Or at least it began that way.

Similar to a routine.

She would put the bottle to her lips,

desperately trying to numb the past,

the burn of vodka slowly, warmly replacing the burn of her depression and repressed pain.

Slowly you could depend on it to be Thursdays and important events, birthdays, holidays.

It showed no remorse, no care, just the need to fill those holes.

Then it became an expectation and to expect otherwise was a sin, and to receive otherwise was a blessing.

Was the woman walking in the poised woman that I knew and once loved, or was it the scary skeleton that took her place?

Now, I can only picture the skeleton, there is no more mother gliding in to kiss me goodnight, no one to fill the holes in my heart that were practically a birthright.

It was always Tuesdays and Fridays.

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