My parents were always drunk; they were drunk when they met, and when I was conceived, and even when I was born. They stayed drunk until my 8th birthday when they drove their El Camino, (drunken, need I add) into a bread truck while on a beer run for what should have been my party. In the waiting room of County Hospital; laying on Nana’s lap and nestled against her ample bosom, I slept.
I dreamed again of mom and dad and me descending the steps of Air Force One, smiling and waving at an adoring America. Just as I got to the part where dad sweeps me up into his arms, I was wakened by official words, hushed voices and quiet sobs. With great effort, I tried and failed to muster a substantial measure of grief before once again giving in to the sleep, and the dream.
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