November, after the time change, is hard for me. I come home in the dark, it’s cold, windy, snowy.
10 years later, I know this.
The early part of December? It’s filled with loss. For the first 10 days, I march through the memories. Admission to hospital, those days in that bed. The moment he came and went.
In the dark, in the cold, in the wind, I know it’s coming.
In the dark, in the cold, in the wind, I remember.
I know it will pass.
10 years on, you learn that. You learn it will be tough, you know that the waves will engulf you and that you will emerge, spluttering and gasping for breath. You know you will live.
In some ways, that’s harder. You know you will live. And that it will happen next year. And the year after that. You know that you will take care of yourself, you will be kind to yourself, you will seek out warmth and light and care, and you know, on the 10th of December, for a few yours, you will drown all the same.
And that’s life.
I wouldn’t change it. I wouldn’t change the time I had with him, I wouldn’t change the way it broke me, because it made me kinder, wiser and more caring.
But in November? In the dark, in the cold, in the wind? When I feel alone and cold and tired?