I forgot Devon’s potato. I can’t believe I forgot Devon’s potato. I was sick on St. Patrick’s Day, but I still should have remembered.
The boys really enjoyed St. Patrick’s Day. We would cook something like Irish stew, and watch iconic Irish movies, like The Quiet Man, or Darby O’Gill and the Little People, or Finian’s Rainbow. Devon would always make a leprechaun trap. He knew a lot about leprechauns and had questions every year. In 2007 he caught a potato in his trap and was very proud. He figured he had at least attracted a leprechaun, and was full of plans for an even more elaborate trap the next time. So, ever since his death, I’ve taken him a potato. It’s a tradition. I split a Guiness with Neal and decorate with shamrocks. And I add a potato to Devon’s grave. Silly, I know, but it makes you feel better to include your departed loved ones in your life, even if it’s silly. Can’t believe I forgot.
I remembered today because of an interview. I had a reporter call from London about a story that they are running on our tragedy in a British women’s magazine. She asked if I visited the graves and I told her that my daughter and I usually decorate for holidays. Bam! Devon’s potato hit me right between the eyes. And, all day long, every thing I touched has gone awry. I even ran out to Rose Hills with a potato, and it hasn’t helped. I got home and my mom had tried to make a meatloaf without waiting for me. It’s lucky she didn’t end up on the ground again, because she is very shaky with the effort. I was delegated to finish it, and couldn’t get the can of tomato sauce open. Cut myself several times on sharp little slivers, but never got the top off. I had to use a church key, and then it fountained all over me. She wanted me to put sweet potatos in the oven, and the only ones I could find she had put into the throw away bowl. Turned out that was a mistake. She started crying but won’t acknowledge her feelings are hurt. I keep crying over stupid sappy commercials and Devon’s potato. Can’t tell her that, though.
My mother always thinks the things that upset me are stupid, and is convinced anyhow, that everything I’m upset about is always about her. So she feels ill used, when it isn’t about her at all. Because she can’t listen, I can’t explain. So, I complain to you instead. I forgot Devon’s potato and everything is going wrong today. I could use that Guiness, I think. And the fairy folk need to stop messing with me. I’m sorry about the potato for the love of Mike. I’m on the edge. Stop pushing. Monkey.