208-B

The Trade Winds hotel room I’ve just entered smells like stale cigarette smoke. As soon as I opened the door that overwhelming stench took me back to my childhood when my mom would sit on the floral print couch and chain smoke Marlboro Reds. The phone up to her ear. The TV on in the background either showing a soap opera or music videos. A large ashtray full of cigarette butts sitting on the coffee table in front of her. It’s like I’m two places in time at once.

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Standing at the crossroads

My mom is currently sitting in a Claremore motel room. She’s shoeless. No extra clothes. A broken neck. 

She’s screaming into her phone and out of my speaker. 

It’s the eighth call in 10 hours. Most of them throughout the night. Four-minute voicemails of her screaming and sobbing. I later listened to all the voicemails. All had same the message. Just the order of the retellings were changed up a bit. Uncontrollable rage in each. In each one she mentioned she wasn’t drunk or high.

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