Death Anniversaries

are wierd.  I remember as a kid resenting that my mother always remembered her parents' death dates and got sad and wanted me to be sad too.  I missed my grandparents with a kind of gentle low level sadness, but I just didn't see the point in keeping track of death dates.  Remembering birthdays was hard enough.  Then my first husband, Kerry, died on July 7 when I was thirty five - almost thirty years ago.  And now I understand.  Everything about the beginning of July, the fireworks, the feel of the air, the colors of the few remaining wildflowers, the angle of the afternoon sun, remind my body of the week the bottom fell out of life as I understood it. Some years the feeling is mild, just a little melancholy I barely notice.  Some years, and this year is one of them, it packs a wallop.  The remembered pain, reverberating pain, of my first central loss has nothing to do with my happiness in my current marriage (which is great).  I feel sad for the young man who never got to be an older man, who never got to see the fine women the little girls he adored have become.  But mostly I think by now, it isn't even about him. This time of year reminds me that life as I know it can blow up again at any moment, and probably will.  I'd rather not think about that much.