My mother picked me up from rehab.
She knew the way, the routine, the process, the steps I had to take.
I usually lasted a week at best, then the decline started.
I missed the high, the rush, the escape.
She’d find me in a stupor, rolled in foetal position all sorrowful, repentant ready to go through the process again.
So the cycle started. Mum with patience and perseverance never gave up.
She’d visit, plan and get excited about me coming home.
She’d say: “You could have been anything son.”
I’d nod, wonder how long I’d last this time.