August Redux

What’s truly amazing is that August comes around again, I can feel the experience of last August.


I don’t know how to explain a year’s worth of movement away from death.

There are little moments that amaze me: the moment I first put on the black dress that I wore to the funeral. The strange feeling of looking at myself in the mirror before I headed off to work and thought to myself, ‘This is moving on.’

Or when I put away all of the death certificates and legal work, believing that I wouldn’t need them again but also prepared to bring them out for legal surprises. The moment also when I struggle with the scanner to send a copy of a death certificate to my aunt to deal with property. For a second, I’m holding a piece of paper that used to be un-confront-able but now has become banal; suddenly the scanner has become the greatest emotional hurdle where once the paper itself was.

Even the weird pause at work, a few weeks after I started, when I mention that I went to a funeral for my mother. The caution my coworker expressed when she gave her sympathy. And the bizarre pause in my words when I think of how to ask for the day off, the pause that extends because I still haven’t asked for the day off. Because I can’t know if I’d rather cope by working or take the time to confront it. And that I can return to this moment, even now and feel both of our discomfort in it.

There’s the big moments too, the sighing and tiredness as the month approaches.

August returns – I think the thing that amazes me is that August has changed. It’s not the summer month. It’s not my birthday month. It’s a measure of how I have accepted and grieved. I don’t think I’ll miss it when September comes.


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