I stopped recognizing the "15th of each month" after the first year of Eric's death because I decided the 15th shall deserve no more attention than the 14th or the 16th, or the 8th, or 22nd. My pragmatism scared me. I felt un-humanlike.
Indeed, this February 15 marks another 15th of the month; it shall be the 24th one. It is the second anniversary of Eric's death. I have not yet come to terms with what that means. How I want to memorialize it. Or not. I have not yet learned to be at peace with the date. I am, still, Grasshopper. I am at peace with being Grasshopper.
My life did not revolve around Eric when he was living, so in all sound rationale it should not revolve around his not-living. My being, however, is profoundly evolved and deeply changed by his death. I took the last breath of my old life on February 15, 2013. I had since deduced, almost to the minute, when that last breath was taken. That knowledge sometimes taunts me. In many ways, I felt that I had also died that day, and that's not necessarily a bad thing.
Edward Hirsch's poems about his deceased son Gabriel resonates with me in the way he describes one never quite gets over the grief of a loss; rather, you carry the grief with you. Wherever you go, you carry it with you. However you evolve, you carry it with you. And you evolve. I would not have understood what Hirsch meant during the first year of Eric's death. I am beginning to comprehend just a little more now.
I need to turn the office into my space. I had tried on two occasions this week to no success. I compare the task to getting a colonoscopy: nobody ever looks forward to one but getting it done buys you five years peace of mind. This space needs to be transformed. It is the last room in the house I need to mindfully make it mine, how ever minor the changes. I am determined the room where Eric spent most of his time must become my own space.
I need to carry it with me one more time. But today, I just let it be. I didn't carry it with me today.
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