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Popcorn and Needles
I remember how
you used to roll
your popcorn popper
across the floor grinning
and not paying attention
to where you were going—
and how happily you
pretended to drive
the rusty ’49 GMC pickup
I was still trying to restore:
Rosie, we called her,
after Rosie the Riveter.
Remember the didgeridoo?
I bought it for you after
we saw a performance
of a didgeridoo quintet
from down under.
And you played it too
for the rest of the summer.
By winter, you’d turned it
into a makeshift bong
which I discovered
accidentally one night
in the basement.
We took a roadtrip through
Mexico once, just the two of us.
Boy, was I surprised
when needles fell out
of your backpack at a
military checkpoint.
Luckily for you, they believed
your story about a
diabetic friend who borrowed it—
must’ve forgotten
to remove his insulin
syringes by mistake.
Then there was the time I found you
passed out on the basement floor,
with the needle there beside you —
next to the tackle box where you hid
your paraphernalia.
Your breath was slow and shallow —
a frayed thread unraveling —
and we didn’t have naloxone
so we hauled you to your feet and
walked you round the living room
as your eyes blinked slowly open,
not quite sure where you’d been.
And then came the day
they said he couldn’t stay with you—
not after they found him
wandering barefoot down the street—
again—
sticky with juice
and no one watching.
Child protective services
placed him with your mother—
but I still felt the rupture
when I learned of it
after the fact and you didn’t call.
I still see you sometimes—
three years old again,
popcorn popper clattering
wild across the hardwood,
grinning and not watching
where you were going.
I don’t know where you are now.
But I hope the light still finds you
and brings you an epiphany
because your son needs you back
and so do I—
More than you know.
Copyright ©
Roxanne Andorfer
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