It begins with the New Year. I drop things. I forget why I have come into a room, or why I have left. Lids on jars, scenes from television shows, slow checkout lines, shoes that don’t match my pants bring tears.  It continues as I flip the calendar. I begin to remember. February is our wedding anniversary. Twenty-three years. Twenty-third Psalm: The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. And yet I do.  My sleep, when it comes, bring dreams filled with want. I awake to an edginess that I cannot name. James. Sunshine makes it worse. I skim through days, endure nights into March. Spring cloaks me with a sadness belied by my smile. The nights are violent. The triggers too many to count. I look in the mirror. Ma. I see my mother’s face. Her dying face. I weep. I barely have time to dry my eyes when April comes. April when James shot himself in the heart on his thirty-seventh birthday. I sort through the piled losses stuffed in corners of memory. James has been dead seventeen endless years; Ma eight. In between cousins, aunts, uncles, best friends, co workers, have eased or been ripped from my world leaving me here with my goddamned season of anniversaries.

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