As one reaches a certain age they realize that there is a direct correlation between one's advancing age and the rate at which months pass in a year. The older one becomes, the faster the year passes, and this year is no exception. Already a twelfth of the year is gone, and February begun, and in 15 more days Joey will have been gone seven years. It seems impossible.
The first few months after his passing was an agony, each Thursday night between 8 and 9 I would be so stressed I couldn't function; wondering what had really happened, what he had felt, how impossible is was that he had ended up dead. It was like a horror movie had been stuck on replay in my head and I couldn't escape its viscous cycle. Now it's years later and the nightmare of that first year has been subdued by the passage of time, and the grief is a shadow of what it once was.
I have found myself pushing aside thoughts of this death day anniversary, not wanting to dwell and succumb to strong emotions. Not wanting to feel that searing pain. I don't know if this survival tactic is good or bad in the long run, I only know I am doing what I can to get through each day.
The whole thing was such bad timing, like there could have been a better or more convenient day for him to die? Could I be less morbid? Less than a week after my Mother's Birthday, two weeks before mine, and two days after Valentines. How can one celebrate with Joy when the nearby dark is such a smothering presence.
Okay, enough said. When I lay down tonight I will remember all I have to be grateful for, including the years with Joey, and count my blessings.
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