The Bottle at The Store

I often wonder if the bottle that will kill my mother has made its way to the store.

 

If it’s sitting there on the shelf

 

With its label that took a degree in graphic design to think up 
And its cap securely fashioned on the rim

 

I wonder if the grocery man has hurriedly placed it on the shelf 

Grudgingly thinking of the BBQ it will no doubt end up at 

Sulking as he thinks of the laughs and sunshine

 

He doesn’t know that the bottle will be desperately thrown into the cart

Grabbed by trembling fingers attached to 

A soul searching for answers

 

Wheeled away with recklessness and urgency 

And sped back to a dark room with curtains drawn and cigarette smoke billowing

 

It won’t be popped open amidst contentment and a warm summer breeze

It will be unlatched with a feverish haste and a final cry for help

 

Downed like a poison

that was only ever meant to be for fun

 

I often wonder if the bottle that will kill my mother has made its way to the store

 

And then I pray that it will never make it home.

 

 

By: Amelia Pratt

Age 19

7/6/2017

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