Days like today remind me of her. Well maybe not such much her, as more the days following her death. Cloudy, warm, quiet. We were coming out of a drought from the year before and in the days after we come home it rained for what felt like weeks. The earth sobbed incessantly all but the days around when it received her. Those three days were gloriously beautiful. A true dichotomy to how we felt yet a reprieve from the bleakness of the rain. A welcomed uplift in the midst of a darkened tragedy.
And then the week after we buried her, the clouds returned. Tim and I sat on our couch that week facing each other silently. We slept intermittently, cried, but mostly just felt dead inside. How could our world have been so completely shattered? I still struggle to wrap my mind around it.
The clouds outside now just burst forth with the rain they have been withholding. It's as if my recognition of their presence here gives them permission to let forth their tears.
Sunday the calendar turns the page on her month. I find March 18th sits empty on most. When I received the family calendar this year, the first page I turned to was March. Blank. Other than my birthday sitting a little less than a week after hers as if I even care. The church newsletter came out with the monthly birthday wishes, again hers was not there. In respect and love, I know my church and my family will honor her memory, but to find her name missing this year is the starkest of reminders of the one who too is missing.
As I continue to survive through February, I find today to be a reminder of the spring of last year. I foresee the days leading up to Cara's birthday being difficult, but I also imagine the days following even more so. As we have warm rainy days, as we remember last year when the world stopped for us, and as around us we are expected to carry on with pace of life void of the societal acceptance of fresh grief that we were granted last year.