When you pull my body out of the lake,

play a Springsteen song

and try and imagine

what yellow would taste like.

Force yourself to remember what you

ate for breakfast,

today

and the day before

and the day before

and the day before

and the day before

as you wrap me in a black body bag.

Close the doors —

did you tip at the bar last night?

Have you paid the electricity bill?

Think about anything else —

your childhood cat,

a band poster you saw two days ago,

the girl you passed crying at the bus stop this morning

and you didn’t ask her anything.

Let a personality quiz pick the theme of my funeral,

a pub jukebox deciding the final song.

Stand up there

and speak about

local news,

the weather,

how your job has been going.

Make the moment about anyone else

and, when you lower me into the ground,

remind yourself

that if I could have done it myself,

I would have.

If I could have pulled my own body out of the lake,

hosted the whole affair myself,

dug my own grave —

I would have had it handled.

You’re seven, and you love your mother.

You lie on your stomach in front of the television,

carpet burning your knees,

watching her bend in front of the fridge,

pulling out a tall green bottle and a chilled wine glass.

She curls on the sofa behind you,

rollers in her hair,

dark red robe tied around at the waist,

a layer of moisturiser smeared over her face

so heavy you aren’t allowed to kiss her.

The words on the book in your hands start to smudge,

the plastic library cover a little sticky,

and you think the show soundtrack is off-key.

You hear the glug of the glass filling,

the snapping of magazine pages,

the glass filling again.

Another episode starts up –

is a character missing from the introduction?

You wonder if tonight will be a yelling night,

or if you’ll twist around to find her asleep,

her hair slipping free,

before you tuck yourself in.

You force yourself to keep reading,

stumbling down the rabbit hole.

You’re eleven, and you hear an adult describe your mother as an enthusiastic drinker.

It’s a parent-teacher meeting

and you’re hiding on the stairs after your mother raised her voice at your physics teacher,

knowing the uniform you’re wearing is still too big for you.

You hear two fathers on the steps below you,

letting their wives do the talking,

loosely planning a dinner party

when one of them utters the phrase.

The other chuckles

and, while you don’t know why,

it makes your cheeks flush

and your ribs tighten like a vice.

You slip out the door above them,

scanning the hallways for your mother.

A hand on her wrist,

you beg her to leave.

She chuckles, a little too loud.

Silly girl.

Your face burns the whole car ride home,

barely able to hear her critiques

over the sound of your heart beating.

That night, when she falls asleep

during the film she promised the two of you would watch together,

you put down your book.

You pad, feather-light on the carpet,

to her spot on the sofa

and lift the martini glass of clear liquid.

It burns all the way down,

turning your windpipe to scar tissue.

You down the rest of it.

You’re thirteen, and at your first party.

Renee, who sits next to you in English

and is the closest thing you have to a friend,

dragged you here,

smearing dark powder over your eyelids

and glitter on your cheeks.

She held your hand through the doorway,

into the room of neon lights and loud music,

dropping it to push a mystery drink into your hands.

It tastes like rot and decay

but you dig your heels in

and grit your teeth

and swallow.

The next glass is easier,

and the next,

and then you’re free-falling down the rabbit hole,

giggle on your friend’s shoulder.

You sob in the bathroom,

almost ruining your eyeliner,

clutching the porcelain sink for comfort.

You don’t think about your mother.

You dry your eyes,

reapply a tinted lip balm,

step back outside.

Renee offers you a shot.

Yes, please.

You’re seventeen, and there’s a plastic water bottle of vodka in your backpack.

It’s a school field trip,

some crumbling manor and wide expanses of lawn

that hold historical significance, your teacher promises.

You chew your lip through the lectures,

spilling out onto the grounds with your friends,

who like you better when you’ve had a few drinks.

Hackles raise on your neck — eyes on you.

A gardener, older,

sandy hair in his cornflower eyes,

calloused hands gripping a broom as he eyes you.

You tell your friends you’re going to the bathroom,

sidling up to him.

Hi.

Hey.

You work here?

He smiles at you

and you take his hand,

leading him through the rose garden

and into the hedge maze,

crossing your legs over him on the warm grass.

The two of you share the bottle

and you laugh when he winces,

letting him be impressed

when the liquor slides easily down your throat.

He smells like menthol cigarettes

and the hot summer sun.

He kisses you first – that’s important –

and then the two of you are rolling into the leaves,

behind a statue and into the bushes,

him sliding into you.

His teeth bite down on your neck,

your eyes rolling shut under the alcohol haze,

beaming up at the fresh green leaves.

When you stumble back to your friends,

Renee gives you a well-practiced look

of both amusement and disappointment.

You ignore it.

You’re nineteen, and you might drink too much.

Your college-assigned roommate is polite enough

to ignore the bottles of wine and liquor in the fridge,

and the sound of you throwing up in the bathroom.

She smiles at you,

short black hair and tender eyes,

watching you pour another glass

and wear a little less to another party.

I like your dress,

she says to a short red velvet number,

and you hug her tight and tell her you love her.

You haven’t spoken to your mother in over a year.

You invite her,

and she declines,

pointing to the textbooks she has to get through.

A sloppy kiss is pressed to her cheek,

and then you’re out the door.

You don’t often drink before class,

usually too late or too hungover,

but you almost always have something afterwards—

a glass of rosé to take the edge off,

a flask pouring rum into an iced coffee.

Just a little something,

to make the rest of the afternoon sun

and the soft heat of the evening easier.

Nothing serious.

You’re twenty-two, and the drinking is getting worse.

The harsh morning light wakes you up,

and no amount of small success at a minimum wage job

calms you down.

You’re sober at work,

except for a few chance days

when you’re still drunk from last night.

You do well.

When the front door of your pitiful, overpriced apartment closes,

you pour yourself a strong drink,

reheating last night’s takeaway

and playing an old sitcom on the television.

The notebook in front of you

receives only slurred scribbles,

drunken etches,

not the next great American novel.

It’s fine.

You yell at your plants,

adding your bottle to the collection of empty ones.

You screen your mother’s calls,

telling yourself you’ll call back

when you have it together.

If that ever happens.