What did she love? Who knows? Her garden maybe?
Listen, I’ve confessed. What else is there? I don’t want to rake it all up, turn over old ground, examine my ‘motive’.
I’ve got rid of the dead wood.
This is the place.
I remember her frantic hand: drowning, not waving.
She favoured a striped lawn with neat borders; Primulas, begonias, that sort of thing. This watery bog sprouts wild edges: Purple Loosestrife, Brookweed and Cuckoo Spit.
Mother would have hated it.
A fitting resting place.