Silence steals the space between the dinner table, the awkward first sights when the sleep is still in your eyes but things haven gotten better in a way. It monopolizes my mind the idea of houses and homes. Familiarity in spaces and objects usher security and serenity from the past but the bitterness of the past is what draws the complete opposite in people. Oh but we still talk, small talk; the garbage, the coffee maker, the lawn, etc. We all live under the same roof but we’re still so far apart. But what would I rather have instead? The status quo drives me nuts and whatever this is now, it’s a tad more sensible, more relaxed. It’s always that way when pills and drinks are included in the picture.

Still I smile, I stretch my facial muscles as far as they’ll go without hurting, bearing pearly teeth and sharp dimples. Tainted by coffee and cigarettes, the only clear sign of dishonesty as I talk about the nearby wooded-lots (last vestiges of trees as old as nations), multiple schools (divided by Catholic or Public), and city parks (poor substitutes for the original beauty of the original natural habitat) for this latest suburban development. It’s a good investment, promising financial returns, in a safe neighborhood; close to the city but still far away from all of societies ills. A bubble where the sickness festers alone instead of with the rest of the world.

I take each step softly, on tippy toes with the heel raised high. I try to make it look like I’m just going to get something, up and out of the basement through the main hallway, up the stairs and into my room. But they know and I know they know. I open the window, stick my head out, and smoke to my heart’s content. My room always lingering with a slight smoky scent like the drawl of a regional accent. Noticeable but not overbearing. And I don’t know why but this little story, tale, parable or whatever, is what defines family to me the most. We all know but we don’t confront it. Better to just to shut up and play along. The unit remains intact only in what we don’t say.

I carry the cup, using the usual thoughtful expression. Not too paranoid with darting eyes at the placement of every person and action, nor not too blank faced and vaporous as if I was drunk. But despite the tight grip my hands still tremble, not at the voice of my mother or the darting look of recognition from anyone else; they just shake. And I look into the cup filled with vodka, gently swaying from one side of the cup to other, one to the other. Sending the sharp scent of alcohol into my nostrils. The first obstacle, the family room adjoining the kitchen, where the blob of my mother congregates. The total number of steps being all she can afford to take, that and of course the long journey up the hallway and into the bedroom. A trek I’ve myself have had to help, hands gripping her shoulders. Carrying soft flesh like bags of fluid up the stairs into her bedroom because she had a little too much wine again. She’s on the phone, bitching about another failed reality show. I take the orange juice and watch the clear liquid swirl and swirl until overcome by the bright orange. And my mission is complete, complete for this round and the many more to come.

Silence seeps into my mind too, calm ripples replacing the restless churning tides of stormy weather: I’ve hit a rut. I fear it’s the pills with the lab coats once again playing around with my daily dosages. The ideas are there but remain formless. Wispy ghosts who keep me company instead of tormenting me, demanding I give them life. I have a pill for my anxiety, I have a pill if I’m sad, and I have a pill to calm me down if I’m manic. My day is defined by pills divided by colour and size.

And so it goes. And so it goes.