Year 17

2 minute read

Why is it that I no longer feel flattened by these days?

YESTERDAY, MONDAY, WAS THE DAY of Sam’s death 17 years ago. Today is the date: 4/30. And I don’t really feel any different than usual. Maybe a little heavier, but otherwise normal. Well, normal is as normal does, right? So far, I’ve followed my normal routine. Up early. Got my coffee and sat outside listening to the birds waking up. Had breakfast, threw in some laundry, went for a walk, and now . . . I’m typing this: Why is it that I no longer feel flattened by these days?

Is this usualness to be expected after 17 years? Is this what time and distance or absence does to the heart? Or is it my aging mind that just isn’t fazed because this day (my thoughts and memories of it) is no different from any other day?

Maybe I’m just more stable now; the result of years spent practicing mindfulness. Meditating, counting my breaths, sitting with and then erasing my thoughts, then fading to black.

Or is it that I’ve processed so deeply every particle of the pain that there isn’t even an ounce of it left to feel?

I’ve got less time to spare, less to fret, less to waste on sorrow.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe I feel less flattened now because more time is behind me and less of it is ahead of me. I’ve got less time to spare, less to fret, less to waste on sorrow. One day, like him, and with him, I too will be gone. And so, I think I should spend my time as peaceably, and joyfully, as possible and . . .

• think of the past then let go of it, not let it flatten me.
• see the future but not rely on it, or let it lure me with its polished sheen and promises.
• stay in the now because he is always here any moment I need him to be—whatever the day or date—and together then we fade to black.

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