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M y mother was happy. She was singing .
I can’t seem to process it, so I do what I always do when I have something to think about: I take an ax out to the woods.
This time I make sure the tree is good and dead and already on the ground before I bury my ax in it. I also check that nothing is living in it. I’m sure I’d upset someone if it turned out there was a family of bunnies living in the trunk, but there’s nothing there.
She was happy before the accident. Is it too much of a stretch to assume she was pleased about what I told her? Could it be possible that she was happy that I was married?
I just don’t know.
Don’t assume . Dr. Patel told me that several times today and for a moment, I wish I were back in her office to talk this over.
That’s a big switch. Me, who can go for days without talking to anyone, wants to talk to someone about my feelings? What’s going on?
What if I just take what Lyra said and go with it? What if I let myself believe that Mom wasn’t angry when she got behind the wheel? It may be the complete opposite of what I’ve told myself for the last eight years, but what if?
For a moment, I let myself go there.
By the time the trunk of the tree is neatly cut in chunks that would be perfect for a buddy of mine to make into chairs, the thought has eased into my mind quicker than I would have thought possible.
It’s there. It’s swimming around. It likes it there.
Eight years is a long time to wholeheartedly believe something, so I know it won’t stick around forever.
But I might be able to invite it back. The thought that my mother wasn’t angry and therefore I can’t be blamed for the accident.
With every lap around my mind, the thought helps lift the heavy weight off my shoulders.
I cut away the thicker branches and chop them into manageable logs, leaving the shrub in a pile. And then I stack what I can.
By the time I’m finished, my coat is off and sweat makes my shirt stick to my back. And all I want is for Hettie to come back so I can tell her.