Last night I dreamt someone came in and sat on the edge of my bed, all good, very loving. It seemed so real it took a while before I realized I was asleep and dreaming. Today I received unexpectedly in the mail some photographs of my dad. Time has nothing to do with who we are, how it unfolds, or when you feel it. Our lives are expansive, murmuring beyond imposed borders.
I wondered why I was feeling so dark and sad, blanketing without exit. It became managable when I realized it was on this date 6 years ago that my father died. These anniversaries return with the seasons, an ever heavier load each year. They are tucked away in our skin, muscles, hair, joints, feet, hands. We continue living lives so rich, steered by optimism, celestial events, garden barbeques, retelling of jokes, new shoes, old books. The gamut. Then the anniversaries come by that we can’t ignore because remembering is what we are made of. People not here, banging loudly on the door. Our lives constructed on the shoulders of such magnificient absence.