Today’s post is an excerpt from whatever this thing is that’s being created over the next thirty days. Are you writing for NaNoWriMo too? Share your experiences with me!
…I put the daisies down next to her headstone, like I have every year since I was a small child. Accompanied by a rock and a note from Gram. She’s getting to old to come out here on her own. I sit down and toy with the grass, stroking it like an abandoned dog. Plucking the random weed here or there. Digging the dirt from between the words, polishing without polish. It’s a ritual that helps me come to that place where I feel like it’s ok to talk to the dead. If I just wanted to talk to her I could do that, but today is different. Today I need to see the truth of what he did with the evidence buried beneath my feet.
I lie back, stretched on her grave, arms forming a pillow beneath my head, and look up into the bright sky. They tell me she died at midnight. To me it always felt like morning. Morning is when my mother died in my memory. Morning is when they told me. So I always come at the same time, ritual.
Feeling for her memory deep inside of me, the way she used to hold me, the sound of her voice. I close my eyes and extract it until she’s sitting next to me. Johnny boy, she’d call me, stroking my hair. Johnny boy tell me what’s on your mind? Bantering back and forth at such a young age I try to recall the words she used, the inflection of her voice, things I never thought to think of until they became more creations and dreams than actual memories. The creation of my mother’s voice echoes in my head…