The Game

I sent some flowers to my sister at the hospital, where she continues to recover against all odds. I have not spoken to her; I let the flowers do what speaking I am able to do right now. In the card enclosed with the flowers I told her to take care of herself. I know she won't. I know that rehab won't work for her--it never has. But I wanted to say it, to let her know it was important to me that she take care of herself. That beneath years of estrangement and distance there is  love for the child she once was.

We will come to this point again. I will once again do that dreadful dance of anger and despair, laced with hope and regret. I know that one day she will truly die from alcoholism.

I once realized that I would willingly lose my own life to save hers. Now, though, no matter how much I could try, my trying--my own life--would not change a thing. The disease has chosen her path, leading us all into a cruel game of waiting for the inevitable. Hope and despair take their corners.

I enter once more into the game, with a heart that mocks itself.