I make a point of ignoring anniversaries, aggressively losing track of dates and if you held a gun to my head, I wouldn’t be able to tell you exactly what day the twins died. But it’s October again and, even if I’m not really thinking of them, I can’t help knowing that it’s been something very close to three years.
It’s been a long three years and what I’ve learned is mostly what everyone already knows: the past is another country, but the future is too. One day, you’ll pack your bags, buy your ticket, climb on that westbound train. You’ll stare out the window at the scenery: forests, rivers, mountains, more rivers, and then the sea. You’ll disembark, sigh, unpack your suitcase, examine the folded clothes, the folded letters.
You’ll feel a sorrow like the thin shadow of a sorrow. You’ll miss, not what you once grieved for, but Grief herself, her cradling arms, her muffled breath and the way she once wrapped you in silence and tears.