I’m not a huge fan of sad anniversaries. I understand that it’s important to mark occasions like Sept. 11 so that people can perhaps exorcise demons and pains all at the same time. But I also know that grief has no clock. At some point, pain becomes ritual. And then, ritual becomes pain. Maybe even extends pain needlessly.
A year ago today I lost my mother in a car wreck. I have told my nephew, who was also in the wreck, that in no way should he hate St. Patrick’s Day, hate the Texas beach where he was going, hate the state of Texas (where it happened) or create any other long-lasting horrible psychological association where there need not be one. If you want to hate St. Patrick’s Day, then you ought to only because of the New York parade (just kidding, New York).
I get a lot of kind mail from readers and friends about the accident and I appreciate all of it. Suffice it to say that I’m looking back fondly at my mom, looking ahead with nervousness at my impending fatherhood, and making a lot of art in the meantime to stitch it all together before I myself drop dead. Love takes courage because we all face loss all the time. I keep that in mind not to be morbid, but because it makes joy, any joy, that much sweeter and the love we have that much better.
So here’s looking back at you, ma. Love you.
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