Ive been here for three months already. I remember, as a kid, my mom would read me her favorite story, The Butterfly Effect. of course, it probably wasnt the best thing for a child my age to hear, but my mama’s voice always calmed me after a nightmare of an old horror story, the story of the chupacabra. when I was fourteen, she took me to the only movie theatre in town, and we watched Dust to Dust. While she never found it interesting, I had purchased a copy of the book a few months later, and I think I still have both my mothers copy of The Butterfly Effect, and my copy of Dust to Dust. I wondered, when I first read it, if I could ever find the author to get it signed, and had even written a letter, but I think my parents hid it from me. I wouldn’t know, all the stuff in the house was sold off to auctions, save what I packed to bring with me. I think i understand Dust to Dust more, now, after my parents death, with Lucas passing on and such, to be with Mel? I’m sure my parents found each other, and aren’t waiting in Oasis park forever for someone to see them- or, at least, I hope so. I had told their gravestones that they didn’t have anything to wait for, they were already together in death. Alright, I need to get out of this funk, these bad thoughts. I need to photograph. something.
My target for the moment was the The Butterfly Effect poster I had found. Oh, I forgot. Almost a week later, and my walls were done. But, that was about all that would get done for the time being, all the paints and supplies cost a pretty penny, and I only had about $1500 left in savings. My desk is littered with bills already, and even doing little things like the dishes, sometimes it feels like its too much. How was it fair, that while my parents lay six feet under, I was here doing such mundane things as paint my walls, and study for Uni? They should be here for this, but they’re not. They’re not, and for some reason, I cant help but think its my own fault.
You know, dad, I think I finally understand why you and mom didnt want to have me so old, by myself. I met some of my neighbors the other day- a few days after I finished painting my walls, There was an elderly couple, Geeta and Raj, I think? Geeta spoke some crappy Spanish, but it was good enough that I could at least understand her. There was another couple there, but I didn’t catch their names. Geeta caught and held my attention, mostly because she was snobby, just like mama. She took a look around my home and I was so embarrassed when her lip curled, but a tiny voice inside of me crowed that it looks just like how Mama would look when your room was a mess but I wanted to know Geeta, not my brains Image of her. She wasnt my Mama, because my Mama was dead. I sound six, when I say I felt like crying when I finally faced the facts, and stopped hiding beneath the comforting blanket of lies I had woven for myself. I had SEEN the ordeal go down, for heavens sake! I guess it was hard to finally admit to myself that the woman who used to read me to sleep as a kid with tall tales of ghosts coming back to life, and women who could get past their past lives,was know a ghost herself. It was awful. I finally let myself break down after washing the dishes.
How was I supposed to go on without my Mama?