It gets closer and closer every day.
The anniversary of my mother’s death.
On May 4th, a Monday, my mother will have been gone for a year.
On the one hand, a year? An entire year?
On the other hand, it’s only been a year? It feels like dozens, hundreds, even thousands of years of grief and worry.
I miss her. I’m still angry. I’m still hurt. I’m still upset. I am, as a friend told me last night, in a recovery from a trauma, and it’s no wonder that I am in so much pain.
I thought it would be better by now.
I did.
It’s not.
It’s just… familiar.
The Postmodern Bluestocking 