There was mud brown carpet. There were windows, big windows. There were three small rooms. There wasn’t much food. Well, there was food only at the beginning of the month when there was food stamps and money. There were food stamps being sold for money. There was stuff being bought that no one ever saw. Then there was this woman, my mother. There were seven children. There was the time when she was pregnant with seven, “I think I’m going to get an abortion.” she says. I told her if she did, I wouldn’t speak to her again. For number seven, the consequences of being his mother’s seed would not succeed until he began to try to understand life. There was no ‘I hate you’ disguised as ‘I love you’. Number seven was never to go without anything, including food because there was a breast. There was Seagram’s gin, her favorite. She’d inhale that poison. Dive in it, her swimming pool of oblivion and drunkenness. Staggering to nurse the screeching child and dissolve his anger. Hoping he’d fall asleep. And he would. Sucking and coddling his mother as she pumped her sticky gin breast milk into his O shaped hungry mouth. He sucked and sucked until, there he was numb.