I asked how I could help him. Silence. I waited, the phone sweaty in my hand, imagining the pill bottles on his kitchen counter. Then he said, “Can you get me a Butterfinger?” Relieved, I stopped at the corner store, handing a dollar to the smiling woman behind the counter who winked, saying “Just had to give yourself a little treat, eh?” I winked back, not explaining that this candy bar in its bright sunshiny wrapper might be all that stood between my son having a decent day or a descent into a hell neither she nor I could imagine.
Erica Goss is a poet and writer from Eugene, Oregon. She teaches writing classes and edits the newsletter Sticks & Stones. www.ericagoss.com