Twelve

I often think about when I was twelve. We had moved at least twice in the preceding year. I think we moved maybe three or four times. It was the year that Mom left Dad. Dad lived with Mom's parents, and Mom moved us in with another Adult Male.

Oofda. Well, maybe there's a word for the feelings you have, because "oofda" doesn't quite cut it. Confusing, distressing, disorienting.

But, well there were Icees at the 7-11, and didn't that make everything hunky dory?

And there was band and softball. I think youngsters can get a very, very jaded view of adults when they don't make any sense. Maybe wine and writing don't get along too well together, then. If this post doesn't last too long before it gets deleted, you'll know there is a difference between the selves that are presented and the selves that try to make sense of everything when they are sloshed.

Ha!

I didn't like it when Mom drank, either.

See you in a lighter day,

Auriel