Two and a half years

Anniversaries don’ t happen just once a year. They happen every day at 3:30pm. Every Monday at 3:30pm. Every 19th of the month.  Every March 19th.

My husband marked every day at 3:30pm for a long time. Maybe he still does, he just doesn’t talk about it. I couldn’t do that. It was just too awful. But I marked every Monday at 3:30pm for at least a year. Now I have moved to every month on the 19th. And this month it was two and a half years.  We toasted our son at 3:30pm on Saturday. That was the time of day when he put a gun to his chest and shot himself through the heart. I still feel strange to be toasting him. How can one toast a tragedy? But I remind myself of the Irish tradition of raising a glass in memory of a loved one who has passed, and then it makes sense. We live in a permanent state of “waking” our son, in the Irish sense of the word: gathering together to console each other, to share stories about the one who has passed, to celebrate their life and wish them well in their journey. I know Malcolm would approve of the “raising a glass” part.

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