I still see small reminders of my mother. the bumble bees that approached us the last time I was at my sister's; the bumble bee print a fellow classmate made in our intaglio class; the sunflower poster in the break room at work; a face in a crowd; someone's hair; a smile; a way of walking. I wear her shoes and I hope that people comment and I hope that they don't. I told Fig that it was a cruel joke she played, giving me that yodeling pickle when she visited. now I'll have to keep it forever because it was the last thing she ever gave me. I know she wouldn't see it that way. But I can't get rid of it.
I don't like having extraneous things, but I wish I'd at least had the chance to go through her stuff and take some reminders of my childhood with her. It hurts that I haven't been given that opportunity because of the man she chose to marry. but maybe he's a scapegoat. Maybe the real criminal here is my malaise.
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