Saturdays

Saturdays.

It is always the same, the story.

Love, sadness, regret.

Saturday.

Birthday lunch with my sister.

Tea and lazy afternoon.

Going to pick up Zach at work.

Seeing him walk across the parking lot towards my car.

He is high.

My stomach sinks, my heart races.

It is the worst feeling.

An addict son.

The disgust.

The anger.

The fear.

We were going to have birthday dinner together.

No.

“What did you take” I say.

“Just an edible” he says.

Lies.

We drive home, he nods off.

All droopy eyed and stoned.

Slurred speech.

I worry, what has he taken, what would happen if I took him to the ER?

Home.

He goes to his room.

I worry.

He is sleeping with the light on, 7pm.

Not sleeping, stoned sleeping.

I wake him, he bumbles down.

Scrounges for food.

I film him with my iPhone.

Last time, I said, “I am going to show you what you look like”

On drugs.

“What, I have a headache is all!” he says.

Lies.

“Do you want to watch a movie” he says.

“No” I say.

I go to bed.

He goes to bed.

7am.

I did not hear him all night.

I make coffee.

Feed the birds.

Go to wake him.

Tap and open the door.

“Zach” I say.

Silence.

“Zach” I say.

I know.

I see him, still.

Covered.

Sleeping.

Peaceful.

Gray.

He is dead.

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