Maybe I should have written this one first, and followed with the bedtime post to end on a happy note. Unfortunately it’s too late and I’m too tired to go back and fix it. Instead I’ll try to spin it into a metaphor for life, and I’ll pontificate on how often we’d like to rearrange events and memories to better suit our own selfish desires and….
I’m sad, y’all. I’m sad that it has been seven years since my Uncle Mike died so unexpectedly. I’m sad that Andrew won’t ever know the man who gave him his middle name. I’m sad that Googling his name yields no results, because he died before the internet really got hopping. He has no Facebook, no LinkedIn profile. He won’t ever see his third son graduate from high school; he didn’t see the first two, either.
My family will always be one short. Every holiday is one more without him; every April is another countdown to the Official Day. But we don’t just grieve on that day. It’s constantly in the back of my mind as the day draws nearer. I become less patient, more moody. Less secure, more needy. Less Me, more Sad. I become something uncomfortable, I take on a personality that just doesn’t quite fit, like pre-Thanksgiving pants after New Year’s that grab in all the wrong places. And then, it goes away for another year. And that doesn’t feel right, either.
I’m sad, y’all.