When I was nine, I started looking for bottles. In closets, kitchen cabinets and trash bins. Once I found fifteen of them, neatly lined up under the couch in the livingroom. Every find was a small triumph. And a big hole in my heart.
I don’t know how many gallons of wine and whiskey I’ve poured down the drain. Or how many times she promised to stop. Or how many times I believed her.
I still find bottles now and then. Still empty them in the sink. But she’s stopped making promises. And I’ve given up.
I can’t save her.