"Nos péchés sont têtus, nos repentirs sont lâches;." Baudelaire

This part of year is always complicated for me.
In 4 weeks time I’ll be sitting on the damp cold grass of Katie’s grave trying to bend my heart into the ground with empty words that can no more console my loss than bring her back. This thought, though it is constantly out of place in the steep velocity of my life, seeps in constantly. I dread it longingly. Something about the season struggling to change makes this moment more acute. She becomes the first tulip every spring.
Recompense is impossible, of course: the past is always irrevocably terminal, but the irreverence of the present is always shocking. Breathing almost feels like an affront to memory the last weeks before her death day.
This year, life’s failure to reflect feels more abrasive than it has in the past. Everyone is letting go. She’s slipping through the cracks. I can still hear her voice in the background of certain songs. I can still hear her reading Sunday Morning in a whispered voice that smelled like oranges. She still charges into my thoughts anytime I smell Happy or wheat grass, or see red polka dots.
I’m glad of her memory, but fragile in her absence. I don’t think I’ll read any more T.S. Elliot till April.
“We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.”