Tonight’s scenery is just what needed; it’s so beautiful it’s distracting.  It looks as though God did not restrict himself to blue sky and white fluff.  Instead, he took all the colors and splashed them across the skyline.  The great Mississippi River made the perfect mirror for the horizon.  The trees stand tall and blessed as they are next to their family; if one falls, it has a brother to lean on.  I am not among the trees of the forest.  I am the lone tree sitting in a vast plain.  My family resides amongst the wooden ash trays and splintering hammer handle.  But here, in this patch of life, I feel like I’m a part of a Masterpiece.

      I creak open the cellar door and find my way through the dark and spiders.  From what is obvious from her usual signs, mom has been drinking.  From that equates the fact that my dad number four has been another painful failure.  No supper tonight.  When will God spare her the pain of meeting another failure of a hopeful?  I am tired of finding ways to get around the great dreariness that lurks within these walls.  Regardless, I’ll wait for a couple more minutes until she passes out on the couch to make sure she doesn’t do anything more to herself by doing something to me.  With this being number four I have a feeling that it may be worse than just screaming blasphemy to me…about me. 
    I creep up the stairs with the cautiousness of a mouse entering a lion’s territory.  I go over to where my mother rests and take the steak knife that was set out for unknown obscurities that treats its patients of depression.  I know she is ill, yet tonight, I pray, this tired person to whom I look upon will rest at ease.  Tomorrow always brings it’s promise.
    My room doesn’t pertain the usual qualities of a teen; I suppose some wouldn’t even claim it to be a bedroom.  What with all the empty space.  Well,  I would also suppose that a teenager’s room would reflect upon his or her inner and outer being.  I am no different. 
    My bed calls to me and I listen.  It messes with my mind by covering me with a loving blanket when really it smothers my complex feelings and contains it under a burning layer of lies.  I rest my head upon my pillow and start the usual ritual I started when dad number one failed.  The ceiling is my entertainment with all the random bumps that form figures in my imagination.  This is my version of cloud watching only it doesn’t change in its random bump formations; I change my view on the random bump formations.  One day the spot left of the light fixture formed an animated rabbit; the next, it would form a flying  fish.  Tomorrow when I am forced to entertain myself with the ceiling, the spot left of the light fixture will contain a whole new imaginative figure.
    I awoke the next day to the monotonous voice of the Al “your friendly weatherman” giving his usual messages about today’s forecast yet with the promise of tomorrow’s.  Waking up on Monday to go to school always comes with its curse.  I roll out of bed to shut of Al’s alarm and scuffle down the hall to the kitchen to fix myself the usual toast and butter.
    Something is not right.  Mom is always at the table reading the newspaper.  Even after nights such as the night before.  But I suppose this is number four; things will certainly heighten as the numbers increase.  I peer across the kitchen into the living room and find my mother still lying as I had left her.  Something inside me is accusing the worst and with that rush of anxiety I go to the couch.
    The steak knife was back.  Only this time it set on the floor.  Only this time red rubies encrusted its edge.  I under estimated the knife’s diagnosis.  My mother is much more than ill. 
    I run to the river where it would always ensure me that there is always the blessing of another time to make things better than they were before.  It is the place I find refuge in knowing there is something beautiful.   Today is the day that I go to the river and find it mocking and cruel.  Today that I discovered that tomorrows can break their promise.