Mayday, Mayday

Mayday, from the French, for “help me.”

Also see: the first day of May, or “May Day.”

It’s here.  It’s finally here.  The month I have been dreading all year.  The anniversary of my mother’s death is Monday, and it means so many problematic and tiny, and huge, things.

It means I survived.  I’ve survived a world without my mother for one whole year.

It means I remember.  I can’t forget that she was here, a year ago on this day, and on May 4, 2014, she was gone.  Just like that.  One second breathing, the next second, just… not.

It means I suffer.  This year has been hell with grief and anguish, with problems both said and unsaid.

It means I live, and she does not.

That, I think, is the hardest.



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