I’ve always been afraid to forget. I thought of that constantly, when the wounds were fresh and new, and I could still hear your voice, our last conversation, because it’s only been a day after all. Two days, then three, four. A week, a month. A year. I didn’t want to forget, and I’ve kept that thought and thought it often with the passage of time. At first the hours were slow, excruciatingly so. Other days, time would flow in sharp bursts, when grief would give way to moments of joy and relief and triumph. And grief would return, and I would welcome it, because it came with memories of you. It was a blanket, warm and soft, heavy and mine. Sometimes I wonder if it was all real. Your love and the swiftness of our friendship. Sometimes even the pictures are not enough receipts.
This day, I forgot. The calendar, your mother’s sorrow, the birthday greetings reminded me. There came guilt. It settled in and it was familiar. There came memories of you, and pictures, and receipts. And I remembered. I remembered everything.
Cheers to your birthday, hon.