One morning in early Feb, I woke up sobbing. I cried and cried. It was hard to breathe. I struggled to even get out of bed. My heart felt broken.

Several hours later, tears continued to slide down my cheeks. While seated, cross-legged, on a yoga mat, I thought, “Why? It’s almost like today is the anniversary of Tris’s death.”

Then I realized. In a way, it was. It had been exactly 3 years and six months since he died. Immediately, I felt less crazy. At some deep subconscious level, my body knew of the day’s significance, although my conscious brain had struggled to figure it out.

Calendar days are arbitrary, of course. Still, I can’t seem to let them go. Calendar days provide a link to the past, to the precise time in the world when he was here.

In some ways, my grief is amazingly astute.

And in other ways, my grief is shameful. I regress. It’s not fair! I ask pointless questions, queries without answers. Why isn’t he here? Why do I have to do this without him? What’s the point of anything, anyway?

Later this year, I’m going to turn 50 years old.  But I don’t want to.  I don’t want to reach this milestone without him.