The Struggle

I do not yet have the courage to touch the things she left behind. Tiptoeing into the darkened kitchen, I pause to look at the deceptively peaceful reflection of the airy curtains in the polished tiles of the old kitchen table. It was there that so many warm dinners and laughing craft projects were placed. The light stripes across my skin as I walk to the window, parting the curtain with a numb brush of my hand. Below is her cherished garden, just beginning to vanish in the weeds she never tolerated. Suddenly, I find myself kneeling among her precious tomatoes planted alongside marigolds and peppers, my carefully manicured nails heedlessly scratching at the soft soil. Mechanically, as if some other force is driving me, I pull weed after weed, unable to bear the sight of these invaders in her place.

My own voice, youthened by more than a decade, cries like the plaintive wail of ghosts in my ears. “But, mooooom! I want to go to the movies with my friends!” I had never liked weeding, even then. It was a chore to be done to get what I wanted, or a punishment for wrongdoing. Now, the soil seems browner than it was then, the smells keener. I realize her garden has become a blur, salty tears dripping into the scars left behind the hastily-uprooted weeds. It is somehow fitting that I water her garden again this way. I work until the dirt is well worked into my expensive business suit and the light flares orange before fading to silver.

I stand, gathering the weeds into the garbage can. I stare a moment, dusting off my now-grimy hands. Though the disease in her cells is as invasive as the weeds in her garden, I can do nothing to uproot and dispose of it. I turn once more to the garden, my eyes focusing on the ripe, red tomatoes hanging from the thick vines. The polish on my nails clashes with their redness. I pull the largest from the vine with a small struggle, carefully cupping it in my hand as I climb into my SUV.

She will like to see a tomato again.