war part 1.

I had written this letter. Everything was in place, each paragraph with an introductory sentence and transition into the next like I'd always been taught. It was nothing more than an outline. Something to keep me on track and to keep me focused on the task at hand. My knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel with such force, but I didn't know how to let go. The yellow dotted lines blurring to become one long stream of color, and then I saw the exit. I turned the radio up. How appropriate--"Jaded" by Aerosmith. I guess you could call it a distraction, but there's no manual for these kinds of things. It was raining. Pouring. I needed new windshield wipers. I drove past the familiar places. Jazzercise. The drive-in. The ball park. The church with the clever signs, "Harry Who? God is the Potter." For some reason I didn't remember the drive being that brief, but I pulled into the driveway with my crumpled letter that was supposed to fix things. I doubt any of them knew what was coming, but the reaction was calm and collected. A few questions were tossed about, and of course they all wanted a motive. I supplied rehearsed answers, and looked at her leaning over the counter. I had prepared myself for this, yet she hadn't uttered a word. A brief moment of silence, so I filled it with, "Mom, do you have any questions? Anything you want to say at all?"

"No, Michelle. You expect me to have all kinds of questions, but I just don't."

"Okay."

"You're an adult. Do what you want."

So, on Wednesday, April 15th 2009, I walked out of the house, started my car, and drove off without looking back.

It's Thursday now. I left for my lunch break at work and didn't come back. I drove out to find something this afternoon, and I'm not sure of anything anymore. Fresh April wind feels magical on my face, and no one is here but the gardener. There are a few extra flowers since I was last here, but nothing else seems to have changed. My back against her cool tombstone; it somehow feels sacrilegious to curse God on holy property. This looming statue of an angel keeps looking at me three spots down, and I wonder why we can't all have wings. I can hear him mowing through the zigzags of old men who never made it through heart attacks, young daughters who had been slammed by irresponsible drivers, husbands and wives somehow hoping to hold hands under mounds of earth. He never noticed me sitting there, but I saw him continue on to water the flowers. The breeze carried his whistling my way, and I silently thanked this kind man for keeping me company that day.

There are always these allusions to God being this almighty "gardener;" getting rid of the weeds in our lives and watering with psalms wi help us grow. But with his waterhose draped over "loving mother, beautiful wife, and fighter all the way to the end," I wonder how it feels to the be the gardener of the dead. Knowing that week after week, your feet tread over the bodies of fathers and sons, whole families even, and without you, those flowers planted with tearful goodbyes would be nothing more than crumbled petals woven through blades of grass.

I never understood religion beyond what I had always been taught. I doubt that I will ever.

But those flowers sure looked nice.