The messed-up thing is, she didn’t even leave a note. She fancied herself a writer. Like a burned book she had no words for me in her last moments. She could pen a cliché or two in a lengthy tale of fabricated wisdom, but she would not muster a single apology for her only child.
This is what I am left with. A suicide most likely but impossible to confirm. Empty pill bottles and cardboard vino.
I like to pretend sometimes that it was all an accident. Why say goodbye if you don’t plan on leaving?
My mother taught me optimism.