Some anniversaries suck. There’s no other way I can put it. Unlike the anniversary of a birth, which (at least if you still have a bunch of kids around), is a cause for a party and a celebration, and presents and cake and singing off-key, or the anniversary of a marriage, which (hopefully) is also a cause for celebration and if not cake, perhaps hot sex or close cuddles, the anniversary of a death is not fun.
Two years ago, my mom died. Mostly, I’ve adjusted to life without her at the other end of a phone line, without the visits to California, without the silly emails and the guilt-because-I-don’t-call-often-enough. Said guilt put on me, by me, by the way- she never said a word to make me feel that way, guess it’s part of my brain.
So mostly, I’ve gotten used to it, as I say. But there are still those times, when I really, really want to be able to talk to her. I want to tell her about the silly things one of the kids did, or when I’m feeling lonely and depressed, just to hear her calm voice, reminding me that we’re not given anything we can’t handle; to hear her say, as she often did, “Things have a way of working out.”
So today, it’s gray and cold, and I’m grateful for all the good things and people in my life, my wife and kids and friends; but, it’s still a sucky day, and I’m wishing that I could tell her, just once more, that I love her.