I am planting gilliflowers again; you loved their smell so much. I am planting them even knowing that when they sprout on your grave, your mother will pull them out as if it was weed.
My guilt is boundless. Though you fought the disease like a hero, you suffered for so long. You reiterated: “Burn this body, it has suffered enough during the life, I don’t want to decompose slowly, I don’t want any decay and worms.” You admired projects like the one where people planted a tree in a burial urn…
Your relatives said that cremation is a pagan tradition and they buried you “like a Christian.” I couldn’t do anything, officially, they are your kin and I am nobody.
When you fell ill, your mother, who hadn’t spoken to you in years, suddenly became very active and “caring.”
She visited us almost every day.
You already weren’t able to sit on the bed but she carried on with her hysterics, claiming that this was God punishing her for your sins.
She shouted that the doctors shouldn’t give you morphine. That I was doing it on purpose, that at first I had made you a pervert and now I wanted to make you a drug-addict.
She was bringing you all these sanctified candles and miraculous mud, when everything was already a matter of days.
Once she brought with her some kind of a priest or a psychic that lighted heaps of candles in your room, transforming it into suffocating hell, and started to loudly clasp his hands and shout some spells — when each and every harsh sound was a torture to you.
She beat me, she scratched me with her nails, tore my shirt, crushed my glasses with her boots. I was silent. I endured. Because I sympathized with her — she was a miserable and ill elderly woman whose grief was killing her from inside.
You passed away in your sleep. Doctors say that you were lucky — instead of three months you could have suffered a year or more. Luck…
You relatives came to our house to pick up your things a few days after you had died. They threw away souvenirs from different European gay prides that we loved to visit together and all your books about homosexuality. I think they would have burned it on the spot if they could. They didn’t give you a chance to be yourself during your life and they will do anything to “whiten” your biography, so you are not yourself even after your death.
People say that your miserable mother wanders the city and tells people that I poisoned you in order to take a half of our apartment. People say she promises to take me to all possible courts. I hope you don’t see and hear it. What about me? I will come and plant gilliflowers.