A Letter To Christine And An Apology To The Homeowners Association For Not Mowing My Yard

when princess diana died, i thought of a lot of reasons her death was faked.
she was in danger, of course.  there were plots and conspiracies against her.

i believed she didn’t die until the young one, the redhead, wore a nazi costume to a party.  i was sure, if she were living in witness protection, that event would have brought her out: a lady di lazarus forth from a fancy french middle-class castle.  when she didn’t emerge then, i lost hope that she ever could.

my head works hard through the minutes i don’t believe my mother is dead. 
it’s confusing, because although i don’t believe at times that she IS dead, i can’t think why HER death would require an elaborate faking.

and that is why i can’t mow my yard.

 
if she really IS dead and i mow the yard, then i am the kind of person who goes around mowing the yard when she knows full well her mother is dead. 

and i don’t want it.  i don’t want grass to grow when my mother is dead.  i don’t want the crepe myrtles to bloom or the geese to gather on Silver Lake.

what i want is to stay in unionville, where last she was alive.  and i want everyone else to stay there, too. 

i want it to be two weeks later, and she is still living, and janet brings ava and gus to see her. 

we cook out.  and laugh like crazy.

i want george and i to pack some lunches and load up her and dad in their wheel chairs and on their pain meds, and take them fishing at punch courtney’s pond.  like we used to.  like we talked about doing just before dr. fairley called and said the test results weren’t good.  just like we still thought we could do until the minute came when her last breath went and we couldn’t anymore. 

  

and if the two weeks later thing can’t be, then i still want to be in unionville with everyone else who lost her, too, and i want us to be together while we fashion a new normal for ourselves. 

i want anything other than this current thing, where i keep wanting to call her and can’t.