When the half-pint bottles of Fireball in your brother’s freezer appear
by Kimberly Shaw
When the half-pint bottles of Fireball in your brother’s freezer appear
a good alternative to dealing with the emotional turmoil caused from being in the presence of your immediate and extended family for over five hours,
there will be
the memory of yourself three years prior hiding alone under an elm tree turning up a half
gallon of stolen Fireball in between the heaving sobs while everyone else is enjoying the pool.
There will be
the image of your dad’s tears and your own when he bailed you out of jail two days after you were sitting alone under the elm tree and eight hours after you were escorted off of Taylor Street where your Ford Edge was left dangling over the creekbed, airbags deployed, guard rail penetrating the radiator.
There will be
the video you took of your son the morning before your wreck as he performed a side-stepping, arm-crossing dance in the pouring rain and sang, “I’m gonna get soaked,” while simultaneously getting soaked with all the carefree happiness a six-year-old with a living, unincarcerated mother embodies.
There will be
the desire to never again have to strip naked, squat, and cough in front of the strange woman at the county before she issues you a new set of orange pajamas.
There will be
the fact that you are three inches too short to see out of the narrow rectangular window even when you jump as high as you can in the orange jumpsuit that reveals too many body parts to the guards watching on camera when you attempt to calm yourself with the downward dog pose on the one-inch blue mat provided to pad the concrete you are expected to sleep upon.
There will be
the apologetic eyes of the jailer, who you have known all of your life, as he shrugs his shoulders and hands you a paperback copy of Lord of the Flies, stating, “Sorry, this is the only reading material I could find.”
There will be
the overwhelming guilt you feel when your aunt, who lost her son seven years prior to a drunk driving accident, called you the morning after you made bail to tell you she was glad you were still alive.
There will be
the gut-turning half-truths you told your kids about how you wrecked as you try to point out the cool features of the decades-old Mercury Grand Marquis your dad bought you one hour after he bailed you out.
There will be
the confusion on your kid’s faces the day you told them the truth about why you have to blow and hum into a clear tube attached to a little black box attached to your ignition to start your car every morning for a year.
There will be
the wish to avoid having to pee in a cup randomly eighteen times a year at seventy dollars a pop for two years as part of the peer-assistance program in order to keep the license to practice the trade that pays your bills and feeds your kids.
There will be
the tears you held back when one of your students read their personal narrative about their father who they barely remember because he died drinking and driving when they were five.
There will be
a choice you did not have before.
There will be
a prayer for the strength to close the freezer door.
From rural Oklahoma, Kimberly Shaw earned her MFA from Oklahoma State University. Her writings reflect her continuous efforts to understand life—what we are given and how to carry that gift.
Photo by Leviosa Hou on Unsplash