She joined the club. I didn’t want her to.
But she joined the club.
Sucked in by the relief of the next hit. The release of another drink. The black oblivion. The freedom of nothingness.
At half my age, she could have been my daughter.
With her fears and addictions, she could have been mine.
She will not know the ecstasy of a new baby’s messy birth. She will not feel the comfort of supper waiting for her at the end of a busy day. She will not reflect on good times with lifelong friends.
She will be stuck at twenty seven. A member of the club.
A lost artist who carried too much pain.
To join the club, she had to leave.
I didn’t want her to.
(Written for Amy, August 2011)
©Conni Cartlidge, 2011