I hate August. Not the weather, I like it hot. But the anniversaries. one anniversary in particular.
I’ve kept journals for years and I always write a lot in August, so many things come to the surface in August. Not that it’s not on my mind all the rest of the year as well, but there’s something that happens when you near the date of an event, be it joyful or tragic, that somehow makes it seem closer, more raw. Also, I’ve never kept a journal that other people read, though and I’m not sure that I’m open to writing about this stuff where other people will possibly read it.
All through the month of August I’m moody. My husband is especially gentle in August, my father disappears and doesn’t really resurface till September. My mother cries. I hold my children a little bit closer and I remember.
It’s been almost 15 years and the pain never goes away. The ache where the person used to be never goes away. They say that time heals all wounds, but it’s not true. It’s just that with the passage of time there are longer intervals between breakdowns.
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