But here is what else I’m thinking about today. My favorite place on the patio is in the corner L-shaped chair with a big fluffy floral print pillow on it. It’s my spot. It’s where I sit. Everyone knows this. Does anyone else think it’s mildly coincidental that if I had been sitting in ‘my spot’ when Dave killed himself that the bullet would have grazed my ear? I’m trying not to let my spot be ruined. I love my spot. But from time to time I get rattled by this. Someone came and patched the bullet hole on the wall. But of course I could still see it. So I hung something over it. It was a cute, artsy patio sign Dave and the kids had given me for Mother’s Day last year. So, in my surreal little world, I sit in my spot and think about the bullet whizzing past me, and how my Mother’s Day gift hides the bullet hole.
And here is the other thing. The bullet went into the pool. Made a hole in it. My brother had to let half the water out and patch it the next day. I sooo didn’t want to get in that pool again. I knew his body parts....his skin cells and hair and tiny pieces of his heart were on the bullet that went in there…and that was all we had left of him. The police took the bullet. I had made him get in the pool and play with the kids the day before, on July 4th. He forced himself to do it. It looked physically painful for him. I want to stab him repeatedly that I had to force him to play with his kids. God, he was so sick. I’m such an idiot for not having him committed. Now the pool’s about to go up again, with the little patch on it. Fuck you, Dave. If you give a fuck about us at all, you better put a real swimming pool in my path. I need something better to think about when I’m sitting in my spot, something better than my husband’s bullet whizzing by, stripping the branches off my ficus tree and landing in the pool. Some crazy mad big patio parties might do the trick too….we need some fuh-reaky stuff happening down there…to cancel out the other fuh-reaky stuff. Ya hurd me, people? It's the pink elephant trick, remember?
Maybe these morbid thoughts will just go away. For a long time, I could not walk down the back steps without thinking that he walked down them with a gun in his hand, knowing he was going to destroy us. With every step I took, I wondered what was going through his head. It made me crazy. Did he even think of me? The kids? One of Dave's clients was Miller Lite and he used to build the stages for Jazz Fest and Voodoo Fest, and these artists would come and paint all this crazy shit all over them for decoration. I was actually going to call them and ask them to turn my back steps into some crazy mural…so desperate was I to simply walk down them without these horrid thoughts in my head. And then…it just sort of went away. Gradually. I got numb to it. I finally went up and down them enough. Every now and then I still think it...but I just handle it.
Sometimes I think we should move. I know that some people in my family are weirded out about my house. But I’ve always loved my house. My house has always been light and airy and beautiful with good energy. And that’s what other people say about it…all the time. I know I could just sell it and get another house that is all those things….plus a pool!!! Maybe I should. The problem is that my sister lives literally a stone’s throw from my house. I think if it weren’t for that, I might do it. You see what’s happening here? We are getting closer to the day. We’re in May now. Two months away. Gheez Louise who knows what the fuck I’ll be posting here for the next couple months. Fucking crazy ass surreal roller coaster life.