On Saturday, Adam and I were out and about, having a pre-dinner drink in advance of a birthday dinner for two of our good friends. The subject turned to the Pantone color of the year and for brevity’s sake, let’s just say we disagreed and I was wrong. Well, I wasn’t exactly wrong, I was just off by a year.
Loss does funny things to one’s sense of time. Last Friday was marked one year without my grandfather, but the year preceding it was so strange, it’s as if it never happened at all. Or perhaps the rest of the world slowed down or fell away. But it didn’t. Pantone moved on to Emerald from Tangerine, without my acknowledgement or cooperation.
I’d been dreading the anniversary for awhile, trying to figure out how to fittingly mark the day. But, mortifyingly, I woke up on the 18th with a story idea and hunkered down, eschewing breakfast and a second cup of coffee. I had forgotten what day it was until it was halfway over.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ve made any progress in my processing of his death and, yet, it’s clear that it no longer pervades things as it once did. The missing is that same evil ache. There is so much I wish I could share with him. But time does smooth things over and pat things down, letting us walk an even surface once again.