Saturdays

I meet my mom on the corner of Fifth Avenue every Saturday morning. I don’t know where she comes from, and I never ask.

This Saturday, her eye is black. Every Saturday, it’s something.

We sit inside a local café, and I bite into my egg and cheese bagel.

“You gonna talk about the eye?”

My mom grins. “I got into a fight at the Salvation Army.”

“And?”

She pops a tater tot into her mouth. “I beat her ass. Got some new clothes, too.”

My mom poses in a puke-green, tattered hoodie hanging from her scrawny frame.

“I’ll buy you a jacket,” I say.

The check comes, and our Saturday goes by until we’re back near my car, playing tug-of-war with a fifty-dollar bill.

 “For something without holes.”

“Boy, I’m grown. Give me a hug.”

We hug, and I let the money and my mom go.

When Saturday comes again, my mom isn’t leaning against the brick wall smoking a cigarette. I wait for hours, but she never comes. My sister calls, and I drive to the hospital.

“They said it was crystal meth.” My sister cries in my arms.

I squeeze her tight, then slide into the room. My mom lies still on the bed, and I kiss her stiff hand.

“I knew you wouldn’t buy a jacket.” I rise, glowering at her. “I was never the problem. You were!”

I don’t weep at the cremation.  

My Saturdays are free now.