I keep waiting for the day when I no longer see her. Fifteen years after her death and my mother is still as easy to find now as she was then.
I close my eyes, and there she is; dead, wrist perfectly slit, soaking in a tub of her own blood.
I feel her buzz relentlessly around my head, like gnats on a sticky, hot summer day. She’s there, happily swarming aggressively around me until I can no longer breathe.