If I had died that day—by my own hand, yes, but by her thoughts as well— I suppose I might have left a note. A short one with just her name. Scribbled plainly, none of my usual flair. That would have been enough, I think. She would read it, maybe once, and fold it neatly, Like one of those receipts for something she never meant to buy. And maybe then, she would remember me often. Not with affection, or even a slight sorrow. But with a similar discomfort you would feel when there's a stone in your shoe. Then again—This is my mother we are talking about. She would tell herself stories, convince herself otherwise. “He was unwell,” she'd say. And the others would nod. They always nod when she speaks. But maybe, in her own space and conscience, When there is nothing left to arrange, No dishes to wash and no guests to impress— In that silence, perhaps she would know I was right. Even if just a little, and she won't say it out loud. And if not, if by some insane strength of character she remained untouched in her willful ignorance, And came to my grave for the first and last time, more out of obligation than grief, I think I would be tempted to rise. Not like a ghost, no. Nothing that romantic. I would simply... reach. Grab the hem of her blouse. Gently, at first. Then, firmly. She would stumble. I would continue to pull. And we would both return to the earth, as mother and son, side by side. Let her feel the roots twist through her nerves. Let her skull house the worms. Let seeds grow in the hollow of her chest. But let her heart continue to beat. I am not cruel. I only wish for her to feel something, that lasts. Since for her, guilt and regret, apparently do not.