There’s no point in ringing in the new year now. It’s midway through January and I’m far too jaded to stretch on a one-second event for weeks. I slept through the midnight-tolling festivities, fending off a sinus infection and laryngitis, and I’m quite content to leave it in the past.
The month January holds bittersweet memories for me. A year ago, my grandmother passed away, and it was one of the most terrible experiences I’ve lived through (if you’ve been reading this blog for any amount of time, you know that’s not a small statement).
The punctures of grief have lessened, I feel along the same pattern as a Fibonacci spiral. They start so small, so tight together, but gradually the time between choking up grows longer, and the pain dulls. It’s not really ever gone, but as the raging river of daily life pulls me further away, it becomes easier to manage.
Perhaps “easier” isn’t the right word since in the process of writing this post, I’ve used a half dozen tissues and even more tears.
My therapist asked me a few weeks ago how I was going to mark the week, and I answered immediately. Mulling over my answer, I’ve come to the conclusion that it won’t be a single thing, but a wide variety of ways to remember my grandmother. I follow a long tradition in my melodramatic flair, Disney-inspired-names, red-head-wanna-be, recipe-be-scorned ways I inherited from Grandma Mickey.
So this week I’m still going to mourn her passing and all the moments I never got to spend with her. I’m also going to laugh, to cry, and to cook because I like to think that’s what she would have wanted me to do.