the mourning after

every year she would wrap foil around the tree. she would flinch if she heard the screeching of breaks close or in the distance. she would see his face smiling, something he rarely did, she would shake bad thoughts from her mind. not now nola, she’d think.

and every year i would cut it down when she’d gone to work. i’d cut it down and hide it in my drawer. the same gaudy silver, the same fluroscent happy birthday written in capital letters. i'd sit silently as she’d rant and cry that some local bastard had cut it down. some bastard child of some bastard bastard. flabbergasted, she’d fail to make sense. she’d cry the way she had the day it had happened. reliving the moment over and over again.

i did it hoping one year she’d accept it. that one year she’d see there was nothing wrong with mourning. that it was the only way to look towards the future, to embrace what was left.
the life she was letting rot.
that marriage.
the children that hated her.
the room.
the room that didn’t change.
the socks on the bed.
the dust.