FOR ERICA

by Melodie Johnson Howe

Like James, Steve, and Rob, I’m off to Bouchercon and I haven’t even thought about packing. I’m still trying to get off the high-heels I wore to a wedding this past weekend.

It was a special affair for our daughter Erica, whom I raised since she was six years old, and has been in recovery (sober) for the last seven years. She is now a professional drug counselor. Many of the women that attended the wedding were her co-workers, her sponsor, and friends that had traveled down the same dark street and chose to stride with great difficulty, back up that street, into life and love.

For a mother, there is nothing better than getting back the daughter you once knew and loved for her wry humor, quirky personality, and intelligence. For a long time a stranger, who at times seemed like Erica, had taken her place. That stranger was the addict.

Both the bride and the groom have been married before, raised children, and have grandchildren. They are not a young innocent couple. But in a way they are. Sobriety has given them a new way and each other.

Her father and her son walked Erica down the aisle. Her daughter was a bridesmaid. Her close friend, who had once been her sponsor, was her maid of honor. At three o’clock on Saturday she stood in a lovely satin-ivory and lace wedding gown, black laced-up tennis shoes, strawberry blonde hair pulled back and trailing down the back of her neck, and her bare arms covered with tattoos. Sleeves. Technicolor sleeves.

As I sat there holding my husband’s hand, and watching the exchange of vows, I thought about how we all tell our stories. Her tattoos were a form of speaking, of communicating. When she showed me her first tattoo, I asked, “Does it wash off?” She broke into laughter, and said, “No, mom, it doesn’t.” I have now grown to love her ink art.

The story that cascades down her arms is told with beautiful vines, birds, and flowers. The colors are in shades of green, red, pink, lavender, and blue. She has created a garden of hope, of beginnings. An untrammeled Garden of Eden.

And at that moment I beamed with pride for Erica’ s success, and her bravery to dare to tell her story of faith and the possible.