I don't know how to feel about it anymore. It hits me in the face and I can feel the cold air stinging, piercing my skin but after all this time I've became numb to it. My voice shakes when they ask me what's wrong with him. The paramedics are always so eager to know the root of the cause. But fuck, with my father there's multiple reasons why he's laid out unconscious. And then they ask so many damn questions! It's not necessary. He's not laying there, on the floor, unconsciously by his own grace, I can assure you that. It's like that part of my heart that pertains to my dad just breaks and breaks more and more every time.
Not my mother. She knows this routine too well. She bags all his medication, clothing for the following day, my dad's insurance information, and her phone charger. She somehow manages to do all of this while there's two paramedics, four fire fighters making there way in and out of our house. How she manages to stay so composed? No fucking clue. She just does it. And I admire her for that very reason. As she's getting into the back of the paramedics truck she yells out, "Don't tell your brothers. Or else they'll miss work. Make sure Damian gets to school on time. And tell your sister I'm sorry I won't be able to watch Esteban tomorrow."
"Well doesn't that just kick you in the crotch, slap you in the face fantastic?"
It's Drea's birthday today. And I won't drown her with my problems. Happy birthday my love. I wish you enough on this day. I really hope you like the flowers I sent you. That you will receive later on today. It isn't every day you climb over that hill and turn 30. I'd be proud to look the way you do at your age. You are one hot mama!!! I love you.