And drinking an entire bottle of wine all by myself? That was a full-blown terrible idea. I did, however, have the good sense to go to bed and not sit up with Mama drinking tea and gin, listening to John Denver sing about country roads and seasons of the heart. Which means I also missed seeing Mama cry. Whenever a few drinks inspire her to haul out the John Denver records, I know what’s coming.

She pulls the old wooden rocking chair up beside the stereo, closes her eyes, and wraps herself in the stories of the songs. Her voice turns to velvet as she sings along. And by the time Denver gets to the chorus, tears are escaping from the corners of her still-closed eyes and she’s rocking in rhythm. But there is never any mess to Mama’s crying. Her voice effortlessly mops up any trace of non-musical emotion that might interfere with the tune. Her face absorbs the tears before they can spot her clothes. There’s no sobbing. No snotting or sniffling. Not so much as an off-key crack of unrestraint. Just John Denver, his stories, my mother, her tears. Although I know that Mama’s John Denver tears come from someplace other than West Virginia or windy Kansas wheat fields or Grandma’s feather bed. Just like her Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson foot-stomping, fist-banging, fuck-the-world-and-the-two-bit-horse-it-rode-in-on grin comes from someplace other than Luckenbach, Texas, and has nothing to do with red-headed strangers, blue eyes crying in the rain, or mamas letting babies grow up to be cowboys. Mama’s tears and grins and memories come from here. From me. From my father.

While my head grapples with my usual morning malady, as well as the injury of a whole bottle of wine and the fresh insult of baldness, Mama’s head is threatening to explode. She just realized that most of the fire last night involved the heaps of old newspapers she’s been hoarding for decades, and she noticed the pictures missing from the Wall of Shame page in the photo album. She’s pissed. Top volume Johnny Cash “Ring of Fire” at five a.m. pissed.

I get up before she has a chance to level the usual threat and brace for a dose of the maternal wrath. A little “who died and made you queen?” followed by the doling out of some arbitrary and unnecessary chores. Shoo the wasps away from the rose, but not the bees. Flip the cushions on the couch. Call Peggy and apologize for being an asshole. But there’s none of that.

“You’ll have to clean up your own vomit today, Missy,” is all she says as she pulls on her worn-out work sneakers.

I try to tell her I’m sorry.

“Sorry is as sorry does,” she grunts, busying herself with tiny adjustments to the frayed laces on her shoes. Still, she holds the sides of my newly shorn head in her hands and plants a kiss on my forehead before she leaves. On the counter, there’s a fresh pan of broc-o-glop to replace the one that Char and I finished in last night’s stupor. The tea on the stove is piping hot, made with three fresh bags.