I'm running out of whiskey

my brother and i are fighting over who gets to sit in the front seat--we're on our way to visit our mother who is staying at the institution again. that word sounds so ugly later but i am 5 years old and that word is synonymous with vacation and flowers and crafts and the funny smell that lingers in those halls. our father will be more quiet and will hug us frequently and we'll probably stop somewhere for McDonald's on the way home and right now my brother and i are secretly thrilled that she's in That Place because now the front seat in the car is open and we get to pretend to be grownups.

my brother and i are fighting over who has to take care of things--we're grown up and busy and our mother is staying at the institution again. that word used to mean leather belts with printed seashells and strange fragile smiles from our mother who was trying very hard, our father told us. but now it means screaming strangers and vacant eyes and the torrent of words which will fall from my mother's mouth like a tsunami of hate--and that funny smell that lingers in those halls. she'll be bloated and hoarse--her stomach was pumped--and right now my brother and i are secretly crushed that she's in That Place because that means she failed and we have to be grownups.