You Don't Believe in Jesus

You Don’t Believe in Jesus


I. Dying Faith

The old house beside mine seems to have been getting greyer and more defeated with every passing year. This year, though, the garden fell out of order, the house seemed crippled with time, and I think it lost its dignity. It lost its dignity as its occupant, a kindly old woman, became more and more lost to her Alzheimer’s. The flowers in her backyard seemed to mourn the loss of her sanity; the prism of their colours faded and left overgrown, half-alive petals dangling from tired stems. I think that mirrored her; she couldn’t even fend for herself.
I never want to be that old. That’s an important thing you have to know about me. I never, ever want to be that old. I want to be old enough to be wise and have wrinkles to prove my years, but I never want to be so old that I can’t look after myself. I never want to be fed through a tube, to wear a diaper so I don’t soil myself, and to forget everyone who has ever meant anything to me. I never wanted to be my neighbour.

II. A Warm Decision

I was mowing the front lawn, letting the sun bake my skin and letting the summer days keep a smile on my face. The smell of freshly-cut grass was everywhere, and the green stained the white of my shoes. I was calm and peaceful, though distracted by the many cars lined up in my neighbour’s driveway. I kept mowing, though, and didn’t care all that much.
Two women walked out of the house, dressed in flowered dresses and with thoughtful smiles on their faces. My mom, who was cutting the overgrown bushes in our own garden, walked up to talk to them. They chatted for a while, smiling and laughing. There was a lot of pointing at our house, and my neighbour’s house, and at me. There was also a lot of nodding. Finally, the two women said goodbye, hopped into a dark blue van, and drove away.
My mother came up to me with the same thoughtful smile. She told me that our neighbour had died. She then picked up her gardening shears and walked into the house, leaving me to deal with this news.
I guess she figured this wouldn’t affect me. I’ve never met my neighbour. I don’t even know her name. I’ve talked to her children and grandchildren on occasion, who would give me updates on her health, but we didn’t have any sort of relationship. But if my mom knew me at all, she should have known how that would hit me.
As some sort of a sentiment, I mowed my neighbour’s front lawn, too. At one point, someone came out of the house and asked what I was doing. I told her, “I’m mowing this woman’s lawn.”
The person looked at me funny, and said “She died on Tuesday. Today was her funeral.” I nodded, telling her that I had already learned that. She looked at me with an even stranger look on her face. I think she thought I was crazy.
“ I want to mow her lawn for her. As a parting gift, you know?” The woman stared at me for a moment, opened her mouth as though to say something, and then closed it again. She did this several times before walking back into the house, stopping at the door to look back at me one last time, with the same expression on her face. I shrugged, and finished mowing the lawn.
III. You Didn’t Stop Me


Everything makes me think too much. I don’t know why, but I think all the time about everything. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a diagnosis for my brain, and its crazy thoughts. Either way, I think too much.
So sitting in my messy kitchen, eating a half-melted freezie, I was thinking. I was thinking about death, and how people die, and everything that entails. It was confusing, and I was starting to get a headache. And then my thoughts came to my dad, and how he would die someday (he’d been smoking and drinking all his life), and how I would probably never tell him all of the horrible things I needed to tell him. That’s when I decided to pick up the phone. I decided I needed to tell him these things.
I stood in my kitchen, dialing his number, and staring through the window at my neighbour’s defeated house.

IV. I Barely Remember his Number

My dad was shocked. At first I got his answering machine (he always screens his calls), and then I started talking. I told him that his daughter was on the phone, and that he should pick up because I’m his daughter, and it’s his obligation. Then he picked up the phone.
“Hey there, doll-face,” came his familiar voice, low and defeated. I shivered.
“Hi dad. I need to talk to you.” I couldn’t believe I was actually doing this.
“Sure, what about?”
“Dad, I don’t love you.” There was silence on the phone. The most pregnant, terrifying silence you will ever hear in your life. It was too late to back out. “I blame you for everything that has gone wrong in my life. I blame you and your alcoholism and your smoking. I blame you for leaving when you could have just stopped drinking. I blame you for making mom cry, and I blame you for making me afraid to show my feelings, and I blame you for being poor, and I blame you for everything. Dad, I don’t love you. I’m afraid of you. You’re going to die soon, and I won’t miss you.”
I was shocked at myself. Those words had poured out of me, unstoppable, and I regretted it already. How could I say that? How could I? My dad is fragile, and likely to kill himself. I knew that. I felt like Judas Iscariot, giving Jesus the kiss of death.
My dad doesn’t believe in Jesus.

V. Decay

My dad’s apartment had been decaying for years. It was dark and smokey, covered in broken bottles and piss from his late-night binges. In the last year, though, it had seemed to give up. He didn’t even try to smoke out the window anymore, he just let the thick, toxic vapours fill the room. He didn’t try to clean anymore, and it was falling apart.
The day of his funeral, I wore a flowered dress, and mowed my neighbour’s lawn again.