10. 11. 12.

I feel like I should write. 

I always feel better when I do.

I wanted to write about how he was my hero.

How he was so incredibly talented.

I didn't want to write about how I miss him.

I only wanted to remind others how good he was.

And not focus on his mistakes.

I want to prove him wrong.

Last year I thought I was doing good. 

The 26th hit and I fell apart.

I crept through the 27th.

I didn't want to be surprised again.

I didn't want to be caught off guard.

March 1st came around.

And I braced myself.

I've anticipated the darkness.

Of course, it came.

Like oil.  Slowly seeping in

to every crevice of my being.

Deep pain from that knife to my heart 12 years ago.

I think to myself.

How could I have lived 12 years without him?

The years are stacking up.

Too neatly, like blocks.  One on top of another.

The first 10 years he lived where I lived.

The next 11 years I saw him only a few days a week.

The last 12 years he's been gone.

10. 11. 12.

The numbers add up.

Soon the years will be equal. 

Years that I had him and the years he was gone.

Soon will come the year he was gone for more than I knew him.

I can't stop the years from adding up.

I can't add to the years I had.

I must soon tell my oldest.

He must hear from me.

He shouldn't hear from someone else.

I cannot leave the risk hanging open.

I'm terrified to tell him.

But I know the time is coming

that he must know the truth

why March is his mama's sad time.

Why his name is so precious.

As much as I want to forget.

The aches in my bones remind me of the pains in my heart.

Someone told me

"Just get through March.  April is right around the corner."

So that is what I do.

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