Watch Over Me Read Free Page A

that had pictures on them.
     I hated that this was the one we picked out. And of course by "we" I meant me. My
     father was too busy taste-testing different flavors of vodka that day to pick out
     anything, and two hours after the funeral, our extended families all went back to
     the comfort of their own homes and forgot about the grieving people they left behind
     to suffer and struggle. They went back to their happy homes and their happy lives,
     and life just went on for them. The moment they walked out of the church, the cloud
     of death lifted from their shoulders, and they were able to fold up the sadness and
     put it in a back pocket and never think about it again while we were stuck trying
     to figure out how to cope and breathe again.
    "Happy Mother'sssssday," I mumbled as I popped the lid off of her cup of hazelnut
     coffee and poured it slowly into the dirt in front of me, watching it quickly disappear
     into the dry ground.
    When the cup was empty, I put the lid back on and set it down next to me, reaching
     for the bag with the bagel in it. I had to widen my eyes and blink a few times to
     get the bag to come into focus so I could open it and remove the cinnamon crunch bagel.
     I set it down right on top of the headstone and let out a huge sigh.
    "I can't do this without you. I hate that you're not here. I hate it so much," I said
     to the picture on the headstone, trying in vain to keep the tears at bay. They rolled
     down my cheeks on their own volition and dropped onto my knees.
    I picked at a few stray blades of grass that had popped up around the disturbed earth
     and began breaking little pieces off while the tears continued to fall.
    "What am I supposed to do without you? How the hell am I supposed to do this?" I cried
     angrily.
    I fiddled with a few more pieces of grass and wiped my nose on the back of my hand,
     the words on the headstone and my mother's picture beginning to blur and swirl in
     front of my eyes.
    "I don't want to be here without you. I don't know how…I don't know how to live without
     you here."
    A soft breeze blew through the trees, and I lifted my face up toward the sky and let
     it caress me, hoping that maybe it was a sign from her that she wanted me to do this,
     that she wanted me with her. With my eyes still closed, I reached into the front pocket
     of my shorts and removed the razor, lightly running my thumb back and forth over the
     top, thinking about how sleepy I was and how easy it would be to just curl up on top
     of the dirt and take a nap.
    Without opening my eyes, I brought the razor to the inside of my wrist and made the
     first cut.

 
     
    " How are things with your father?" Dr. Thompson asks.
    Her office is bright and airy, and at the start of every meeting, she apologizes and
     then gets up to shut the blinds, covering the window above her desk so the sun doesn't
     blind either of us. She always makes a joke about wanting to blind me so I'll forget
     I'm in a doctor's office and it will trick me into opening up to her more. Every time
     she says it I wonder if she knew my mother in another life and stole all of her best
     lines.
    I always sit on the buttery soft, white leather couch with my shoes off and my legs
     curled up underneath me, and Dr. Thompson sits directly across from me in a dark blue
     recliner. She says it's more comfortable and inviting to talk this way, and she hopes
     it makes people feel like they're just chatting in her living room. Her office is
     warm and inviting, which I guess is typical of a therapist's office. I wouldn't know
     since she's the only one I've ever been to. I always find myself staring at a Thomas
     Kinkaid painting of a snowy cottage scene on Christmas Eve that hangs on the wall.
     My parents used to have the exact same painting above their fireplace until my dad
     removed all traces of my mother the day after she died. I wonder where that painting
     is now.
    "Okay I guess. He always manages to call at the most inopportune