Full Circle

Sensitive Content: Mention of suicide, murder, and crime.

The red leaves spring from the trees towering above the busy streets of Burlington, Vermont, and sway side to side, falling into the wind currents that push and pull them in every direction. The trees emerge into a blend of vibrant colors, the foggy air is crisp, and stores all over town are selling their best autumn-themed products. 

Soon enough, the harsh winter comes along once again.

And everything dies.

For the rest of the year, I hated living in Vermont, the harsh cycle of nature is one of the many reasons I despised it. Sometimes I like to imagine how things could have been different. If I was different. Stronger, smarter, braver. Would my mother still be alive?

The thoughts of my mother are like red leaves swaying in the wind, that I can never catch. They always fall in the same place, only to be smushed into the ground, and covered with snow. My brain distorts those thoughts like a new tree that sprouts. But the ones I have left are happy ones.

I'd never been to a funeral with so many people, and I’ve been to an overwhelming amount of funerals. Every neighbor in our town must have been there, mourning, and paying respects. So many people emphasized how much my mother had touched their lives, and what she sacrificed for them. How she never turned her back on anyone, how she gave and gave until there was nothing left for her to give. She never walked away from her integrity, it was like a magnet that clung to her soul. 

“Delia listened to me when no one else would.” Her friend said.

“I never felt judged by her.” Her brother said.

“I’d walk away from her feeling like I had won the lottery. She made me so happy.” Her cousin said.

“She still had so much more to live for.” Her husband said.

My fathers’ words remained with me like a scar, they burned into the back of my skull and tore away at it. A flood of anger pooled into my body that day as I watched him feign tears. He shook hands with the mourning neighbors and made a mockery of them. He had everyone fooled.

My mother was a saint. And my father murdered her.

My dad told me that nobody would believe me, and he was right. It was suicide they said.

Could they really believe that? My mother, who has an undying love for her life and the people in it, she just ended it?

But if my father said it then it must be true.

 He’d been a criminal for years prior to murdering my mother, but he never let it stain his record. To everyone else, he was the perfect citizen, the perfect father. But I’ve seen every side of him, my father treated me like worthless garbage. Because that's all I was to him, an extra necessity, another mouth to feed. A decaying product of his wife. Everything I did, whatever I said, anything I wore, a new hobby I found, and friends that I made. He hated it all. Anything that brought me joy, he wanted it gone. 

The reason he killed the love of his life and then decided to be angry about it was beyond me. According to him, it was his only choice, the last resort if she ever knew him to be the criminal he truly was. Because he wanted to be the “perfect man” in her eyes. As if she actually cared about something as shallow as that. It was all lies, an excuse to kill, it was premeditated just like everything else he does. If he wanted to kill someone so badly, he should have used the rusty knife to puncture his own cold dying heart. I’m sure everyone would have been happier. I certainly would be.

Even after I ran away from home, leaving behind the mess my life had been. Even after making lifelong friends, and becoming educated in the ways of criminal justice and law. Something is still missing. Something was always missing.

I could almost see my smiling mother and me. It was just the two of us during a golden sunset, walking to get ice cream from our favorite spot right down the street from our house. I could almost see my mother carefully frosting the strawberry cake for my 9th birthday, her glowing brown eyes filled with joy as I blew out the golden candles. I could almost see my mother reading me a book completely in German that I couldn’t understand. I could almost see her brush my red hair back after tucking me into bed.

I could almost see her the night I left her all alone. Dad and she were fighting, and he gave me his wallet and practically tossed me into our neighbor's house. Whatever led up to me discovering she was dead is long forgotten. My depressed brain won't allow me to see that.

What I do know is that my dad didn’t hesitate to tell 11-year-old me the truth.

“Everything is changing Dimitri, you'd better get used to it." He said.

Nor did he refrain from threatening my life if I told someone. As far as I knew, this was my mother's fault. She was just another statistic, struggling with crippling mental health issues.

Even as an adult man, with a steady career as a detective. You’d think my life has been fulfilled, that it has a meaning. What good would life be without the one who first made it worth living? 

When I see my father again, he is in a courtroom. I'm the detective and he is the accused. This time, he’d be the statistic, a criminal. I no longer need to imagine how life could have been different. 

And so I once again watch the red leaves sway from the tree and crash to the ground, but this time they aren't crushed or covered with snow. The seasons have come full circle, but this time when winter comes I have a coat to protect me from the death and sadness that comes with it. Now I'm smart enough to know that there are ways to survive the winter, and I dont have to do it alone. My best friend gives a nod of approval before she begins the questioning. 

Nature may be harsh but it’s no stranger to justice.