A Year Tomorrow

I've been dragging my feet toward this day for weeks. As it nears, I spend more and more time reliving the same days a year ago. On one hand, that's good; therapeutic, appropriate, and it reassures me that I haven't forgotten. On the other hand--well, I'm sure it's as obvious as a magenta cow in a snowy field. It sucks. Sucks like the mother of all Hoovers.

After lots of not wanting to think about it, turned into thinking about it for seconds at a time, turned into audible discussions, I've decided we'll commemorate her death by lighting a candle all day and observing two minutes of silence at dinner (by which time the baby should be asleep). I can't bear to do more, but I'll regret doing nothing.

Strangely enough, I'm afraid it will get harder as the years go by. She wouldn't be that different now if she had lived; in ten years, we'll be commemorating someone she would no longer be. It feels like holding her back, which I know is silly. And it's all we have, so we'll make do with it.