Ah, May – three little letters that knock me to my knees, every single year. I keep telling myself this year will be better, it won’t hit me so hard.
I’m always wrong.
My Poppa died in May. He died two days before my mother’s 80th birthday. Mother, being Mother, said, “Your father knew how to get everyone together for my birthday,” as we scheduled his funeral.
Mother’s Day – who came up with that brilliant idea? A knife in the heart of every person who doesn’t have their mom any more, and anyone who tells you that loss grows easier with time has either never experienced that pain, or is just an outright lying sack. It gets deeper, and slower, and more a part of your every breath – but it never gets easier.
Her birthday – a day that we always celebrated in grand style – is now a day that I spend staring into space and wishing she was here to tell me to stop my nonsense.
And my favorite sister – the sister who died too soon, who went where she couldn’t take me even though she’d promised me she never would – her birthday is also in May.
It’s all a bit more than a princess should have to bear.
My Bear takes care of me – he doesn’t really understand, but he tries. He takes me out for ice cream, and he makes me laugh. If it wasn’t for him, I would spend this month in bed, with the blankets over my head.
