I got into another brawl yet again over your home this morning. Not the best start to my day.
It’s slipping ever so slightly away from me and my vision and feebly becoming something ‘else’. Just as your presence battles with the stench of cheap paint fumes the gardens you cherished have been plagued by some disease for some time now. Every thing there that was once thriving long after you left us has taken a dramatic and bleak new turn and I am not sure if it can be salvaged.
It just seems to grow more rancid with each passing week as if these changes are suffocating your memory and life from this home. I can’t help but wonder if my ideas are also causing harm, though deep down I hear that familiar voice comforting me and reminding me how you always trusted and adored my innate sense of creative style. And I suppose the changes made do not reflect my initial vision but a mere sad and depressed version of my parents cost cutting methods; yet I still can not help but blame myself for allowing this happen, I could and can do so much more, yet the ‘can’ part seems to evade me as it all boils down to finances which, much like the state of your lemon trees are utterly sickly right now.
I just want to do right by you.