My mother’s grave. She was beneath my feet. Six feet to be exact. Rotting away. Leaving behind nothing in this life to be proud of except a loser son and a father that – although he didn’t want to admit it – loathed me for killing her.
“You’ve been standing there for a very long time,” he told me, quietly.
I didn’t stir at his voice. I just stared numbly down at the block of stone, running my fingers along the curves of her name. Don’t ask me how, but I knew I would never return to this place again. That once I turned my back on her, I’d never seek her out again.
So, I remained there, fixated on the stone, tracing her name over and over again.
Elizabeth Matheson.
Elizabeth Matheson.
Eli-za-beth Ma-the-son.
Her death created a domino effect.
Dad mourned her death so much, he drowned his sorrows away with alcohol.
That resulted in him losing his job as an electrician.
Then we lost the house because he couldn’t pay the mortgage.
And because we lost the house and had no money, we were moving to some shithole somewhere.
But that wasn’t the end.
No, that shithole would eventually lead me to Leah, to love, to passion and music. To fuck-ups and fix-ups, and the life that I never knew could possibly be mine.
Mom’s death may have killed me at one point, but it paved a life to my soulmate, and to true happiness.
I was alive again.
THE END