Her life was a snowstorm; while the rest of us relied on oxygen to breathe she could not cope without inhaling a constant supply of that damnable white powder. It slid down her nasal passages, snaked its way through her veins and made a home of her habit- gradually evicting her health, her children and, eventually, her sanity.
When my mother told me to pack my bags, I knew it was only because she had done one too many bags. With vehemence in dilated eyes she fallaciously lamented how it was my very existence that had deprived her of her role as a mother in our lives.
I long for her to take an honest look in the mirror, but these days the closest she gets to that is when her reflection stares back at her widened nostrils, the straw cut as short as the one she dealt us.
Her life has become an illusion, and I have watched her disappear.