There is no room for denial. The changing seasons are the ultimate clock. Tic Toc with change so visible, so tangible, that I feel it in my bones as I drive toward the cemetery.
Summer is burial. So hot. The air is thick and I sweat. We buried her in June. And the heat accompanies my first memories as the mom of a dead baby.
Then the leaves begin to change color. And I grow uncomfortable. Fall is my favorite season but it's changing her place. It brings cooling winds and shorter days. Darkness falls early and I have less time. As if there has ever been enough.
Winter falls. Christmas comes. Trees are bare. Just like her stocking. Suddenly the cemetery is a different place. It's cold and it's quiet. Somber. My memories reflect a backdrop that is almost unrecognizable. And I'm reminded that time is passing. And passing quickly.
Rain falls as Spring begins. The birds begin to stir. The sun warms my tearstained cheek and things begin to feel familiar. Shit. A year has nearly passed. I don't want to believe it. It feels impossible. But the seasons make it real.
The heat returns. With thick air and sweat. Her birthday approaches and the cemetery now matches the memories.
A year has passed.
The first of many.
And the seasons continue to keep count.