I’m wrapping up things here at work before being off for a few days. March 15 is this coming Saturday, and the plan is to be spending that day with good friends and the familiar and comforting sights of DC tourism, alongside my wife and RR.
Last year, we spent March 15th on the cusp of a weekend trip to DC, Baltimore, and Philadelphia. It wasn’t a conscious decision to make plans for this weekend, but in hindsight, I’m glad that I did.
It took me years to move past September 16th as just any old day, and not that Day My Father Died. I never forget, though. Two years seems to be an unreasonable request to operate as if March 15th is any old day, and not the Day My Mother Died. I’m cutting myself some slack.
I still have so many feelings. I’m still so sad some days. Most days. I imagine I feel how she must have felt on September 16th, when she was so sad that my then eleven year old self wouldn’t have any more experiences with my father that weren’t just memories or stories from other people. I still hear people tell me about how nice and generous he was. I feel sad that RR will never know how much her grandmother loved her, aside from the brief memories and stories that I will share with her. I’m sad that I’m out of memories and stories, too. Again. Crap.
I will hug my family and my friends. I will be thankful for every day that I have with them, and that they have with me. Two years feels both like yesterday and forever ago. Yet I’ve done this before, and I will reluctantly do it again. I admit that it was easier when I was eleven, though.