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.