When people say things to me like: "Your mother would be so upset you cut down that cedar tree", or: "she'd be so proud of all the renovations you've done to the house", my jaw turns to iron, clinched so tightly I might shatter my teeth. Sentences like that might mean something to someone whose mother died in a tragic car accident or after a long battle with cancer, but when your mother chose to leave you; when she took her own life...there's no comfort in her pride, no guilt in her disappointment. There is only anger. Anger because if she cared about the damn cedar tree she would still be here. If she wanted the house renovated, she would have stuck around and done it herself. But she didn't. Wherever she is, she doesn't give a shit about the fucking tree, and she certainly doesn't care that I busted my ass ripping down all her God awful paisley wallpaper that would make selling this money pit impossible. She didn't think of any of those things before she did what she did. She thought only of herself. Yes, I know she was in pain. Yes, I know she thought it was her only answer, but understanding why she did it doesn't change the fact that what she did tossed a tiny snowball down the side of a mountain, growing with every inch it traveled, until it became an avalanche which crashed through my life, leaving behind it a trail of destruction I don't know if I can ever fix. So no, I don't care if she's upset because I cut down the cedar tree, and I don't care what she thinks of the renovations, because if any of that shit really mattered she'd still be here.













