pull open the curtains on my bedroom window and see the neighbour’s tabby cat creeping through the remains of our once-loved garden like it’s walking a tightrope.
Don’t fall, kitty.
I look a little closer and there she is: my mother in her heavy blue sweater, down on her hands and knees by one of the old flower beds, carefully picking at weeds. I knew it was going to be one of
days.My mother died three years ago.I lean my forehead against the cold glass and watch her. As always, she seems worried. I take a deep breath, pull myself away from the window and check my face in the dresser mirror. I look like a witch, and not the sexy Halloween-costume kind. Before I leave my bed-room, I take one last look out into the garden, knowing that, this time, she probably won’t be there. Yeah, she’s gone. It’s been two years since I lied and told my grandmother I don’t see her anymore. It’s only my imagination, apparently, so what’s the point of more time in stupid psychotherapy?