Release of Grip

I secured myself a sponsor today.
I sat in the pink, cushioned chair, middle row, center, left knee over the right, wrinkling my toes up in my sandals. I listened, sunk it all in, laughed, teared up once, became distracted by my own thoughts.
And then there it was. The words I had been waiting for, anticipating, fearing:
"And now it's time for the newcomers to share."
I did not hesitate as I normally do, sink my eyes to the carpet and nibble on my bottom lip.
No, this time I spoke up. This was my miracle of the day.
"I'm Souza, and I'm an alcoholic."
To go any further into detail would be a breach of trusted contract, a disclosure to what is deemed anonymous. So, I will not.
I will say that by the mere announcement of words, by the simple act of speaking, I opened myself up to a world, a lifestyle, a community of self-worth and strength, of courage and support. But most of all, I opened myself up to hope.
Will any of this be easy? Hell no. I don't want it to be. But I will do what must be done.
My son sleeps in his own bed tonight. Has been for two weeks now. I am stretching along the lop-sided length of my pull-out couch. Cool sheets and satin comforter up to my waist. He is five feet away. He is safe. And I will wake him in the morning for school. He will go one way, and I the other, and in late afternoon we will greet each other in the middle, in the spine-tingling balance of things. I will say,"How was your day, honey?"
He will sputter off into a fourth grade language I barely understand, and I will nod and smile and tell him how great that is.
He will look at me then, sizing me up, intuitively reading my emotional state before his words become slow and cautious.
"How about you, mom? Was your day good?"
He might look at the wall or his feet or pretend to be searching for a misplaced video game.
He might run his fingers through his thick brown hair and hum a song under his breath.
He is afraid of my answer and he has every right to be.
Today, at least, I was able to say, "Great, babe. It was a really great day."
He smiles, jumps on his bed, twirls around his light saber and says how starving he is.
Tomorrow, I can't promise what my answer will be. I cannot give him that absolute safety every moment of his life, that absolute answer of, "Great day, hon."
But I have hope. And I have faith.
And the more nights he can curl under his own sheets and wake with me five feet away, so can I face life without a bottle in my grip.