Everytime I hear those four little words "mars is in retrograde", I want to run to the nearest bomb shelter with a box of kleenex and some krispy kremes. This means rain...not the standard Seattle mist... but a thick sludge of rain that takes place in my head. It's a rain made of everything that I don't want to think about. Each time it's happened, I've found myself drenched in memories, sometimes the embarrassing ones, but mostly the painful stuff. The universe seems to conspire to remind me of every feeling I haven't finished feeling yet, be it processing conversations with an ex or grieving for a best friend who died eight years ago.
This cycle is the same. Over the weekend, I made my way home to visit my mother and my grandmother, who is not doing so well. While there, I was rummaging through the few remaining boxes of my stuff and came across the yearbook from my senior year of high school. It was a sucker punch below the belt, the pages and pages of people I never want to see again, and worse, a half page note from the one person I'd give anything to see again. When does it stop? We were close for seven years and she's been gone for eight. Shouldn't there be some type of nuclear half life that diminishes the weight of grief over time.....and if so why are my eyes burning? Why does the pit of my stomach feel hollow the way it did when I first heard the news, like a part of me, vital to my ability to be okay, has just disintegrated.
Robin I miss you. I'm sorry we never went to Jamaica together. I'm sorry you never got to go to South Africa. I wish we could have danced more. I still call your mom every November and L. or B. leave flowers for me every year when I can't get back. I love you.
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