Book of days
I was looking at my calendar today, checking to see when my haircut was, and the window displayed through the next few weeks, including July 15th. It took my breath away, seeing that date. In fact, even as I write this, I’m still feeling the punch. It’s not that I’m not aware that the anniversary is coming up. I’ve been feeling it approach since June hit, really. I’ve been feeling it keenly. I’ve been monitoring myself to see how I’m feeling. (Okay, but with a few more downs lately, probably because of the anniversary coming.) I’ve been planning a tribute for the day. (I want to record the song I wrote for him and share it with his gang and those in my gang who knew him and have been supportive.) I’ve been pondering my progress over the last year, and am somewhat shocked that almost a year has passed already. My perception of time, never very rigid, has become fluid, like quicksilver—I can see it, but I cannot grasp it.
It surprises me that seeing that date on the calendar, now marked with his name (an unnecessary reminder—like I could ever forget?), I should have such a literally visceral response to it. Its potency is undeniable, though. There are so many reminders, all the time, and at this point, most of them bring a smile to my face, even if it’s soon joined by tears in my eyes. But not this; this hit me right in the solar plexus with unexpected force. And maybe it’s because the memories that make me smile were ones we created naturally in the course of our relationship, whereas until he died there was nothing special about the middle of July. And now it is memorable for horrible things: not being able to get ahold of him, worrying, desperately investigating, fear of the worst, and ultimately finding out the worst. There is absolutely nothing good associated with the memories of mid-July 2006, no smile to accompany the tears. I think that the best I can hope for is that the punch I feel as that date approaches and arrives loses steam over the years.
It is strange really how profoundly the anniversary affects us…after all, the worst has already happened. For me the anticipation was terrible, worse than the actual day.
It is strange. I’ve found that all along, too: the days leading up to the days are worse than the actual, which invariably ends up being anti-climactic. I try not to psych myself out in advance, but have varying degrees of success with that. As you put it, (and this has put so many other things in my life in perspective, so why not this?), the worst HAS already happened. Nothing else can come close to comparing now.