The Drunk Girl

Do you remember drinking too much, lady?

I don't know if I can call you lady. You were young. Perhaps you were my age, and so drunk I want to just call you girl.

Poor thing, stretched out like Jesus on the cross as your team mates hauled you up those stairs. Too drunk to stand. To drunk to know. Sick from one end of the building to another Your eyes went left. They went right. They went everywhere. Mostly, they slumped shut. You wanted to be shut. And no where.

Clutching at seconds to retain your dignity, you begged, with that fine gloss of slobber on your lip, to use the bathroom.

There was no girl there, not one woman. Not one, to lift you. Give you security.

Just me. The stranger.

Sick, but in need of help we became sisters for a moment. Your weight on mine as we made our way into the cramped bathroom. You wont remember, but you were hardly more than a child; I helped you sit on the toilet. Murmuring for things like water, like a dying woman. Murmuring things I don't remember.

But I remember you. You were hardly more than a baby as I helped you dress again.

A stranger, but your sister.

Passing you on to those deemed responsible for you.

Then I went to sleep and dreamed my dreams, ate my days until this one.

I remember you, wonder if you are okay. Good luck.