four

for mother and the mountains

Mother’s Day came again which means it’s been four years since he killed himself. This time of year weighs heavy on me, Mother’s Day isn’t so much of a celebration as it is a reminder, and we treat the day like any other day. It was late afternoon Sunday before either of my kids even realized it was a holiday, and I spent the day doing the normal chores and carting kids around like I do every weekend.

I went on a first date in the afternoon with a nice man that I didn’t find attractive. We walked by the Stone Arch Bridge and the sky over the city was cerulean blue. The park was filled with families on walks, taking selfies with mom by the skyline. One family watched us watching them and asked if we wanted them to take our photo. I declined, I knew I wasn’t going to see this guy again.

Right after Dave died, I was sure that I would be transformed in six months, miraculously able to shed the weight of twenty years together and a life I had built around him. Like a snail leaving its shell, I would just slink away. Little did I know I’d spend the better part of those first two years in shock, followed by a deep depression that I struggled to climb out of. It’s taken me longer than planned.

I like to think he wouldn’t recognize me now, or if he did, he wouldn’t like me. It’s a thought that brings me peace. Sometimes I catalog the things that would piss him off. I never have butter and I only use margarine. I use plastic garbage bags and buy six rolls of paper towels at a time because I use them so much. I drive everywhere and never do maintenance on my car. I’m 2,000 miles past when the sticker in the windshield says to change the oil. When I finally found a garage, the first thing I did was tell the mechanic the reason I haven’t changed the oil is because I’m a widow. That word hardly means anything anymore.

Last week, I finally called the gas company after two years of smelling gas in that one corner in the basement, and it turns out there were five different joins that were slowly leaking. He would have lost his mind, furious at me – though we were never in harm’s way. I paid for the plumber with a credit card, I pay for everything with a credit card. I don’t know the balance and don’t even know how to log in to the account.

My house is messy. “Piles of doom” he called them. They lean into the corners – mail I haven’t gotten around to opening, that stack of clothes I don’t want in my closet anymore but can’t quite get myself to donate. Theres a box of sex toys is the corner, in the last moving box that I haven’t unpacked even though I moved in 2024. I don’t know where to put them.

I sleep in the bed that he built, but I couldn’t get the drawers to go back in after I moved it, so now the broken drawers are stacked in a pile next to the sex toy box. I don’t really know what’s left in there. After he died, I was sure to get rid of the cuffs and collar and leash. I no longer need such ample storage.

I get mad when friends text me Happy Mother’s Day. I don’t want to fucking hear it and by the 5^th person to do it on Sunday I finally laid into my friend and told him to Shut The Fuck Up. He apologized, confused, just trying to be polite and remember me on a hard day. I can’t stand anyone who is not my child wishing me a happy mother’s day, but also I just don’t like being fucking reminded.

Spring is my favorite time of year. The flowers and trees erupt in color and everywhere I go, I see them blooming. The year we were married, he planted a plum tree in our front yard. I loved it so much, the leaves were a vibrant deep red purple and the flowers popped in white. I named all of my social media after it: plumsinbloom. We were going to take a picture next to it every year on the same day. He cut it down the year I cheated on him.

I’m older now than he got to be. Ai did the math; he lived 16,128 days. I just checked and I’m at 16,158. I don’t know why I’m counting or why this number is important. It’s just since I learned, I can’t get over the fact 16,000 days hardly sounds like very many at all.