november.
11.17.23
In the wall of my kitchen there is a dry erase calendar. Every 30 or so days, I erase past commitments and fill it with new promises for the month ahead.
I erased October and wrote “November” at the top. I followed it with three exclamation points - as if I could counteract the pain associated with this month by additional punctuation. Ironically, in easily erasable ink.
November represents your birthday and our favorite holiday spent together. It’s the beginning of a season filled with unique experiences, giving, baked goods, heavy pours of Bailey’s in my hot chocolate during the three weeks of “winter” Houston offers. It’s spoonfuls of homemade stuffing and whipped cream that we shared until our pant seams couldn’t hold on any longer. Then we’d go on our annual Thanksgiving walk, just the two of us, solving the world’s problems and burning off just enough calories so we could return to the house ready for turkey soup.
At least, November used to represent all of those things - now it represents the crest in my personal wave of sorrow.
Last night I had a dream. It was the worst kind of dream where even my subconscious knew you were missing from this earth. You were not present in the dream, but people who loved you in this life were. Your absence was palpable - just as it is when I’m awake.
I cried in my dream, then awoke to cry in my bed.
I hate November. It’s as if my heartache can be managed, controlled, contained, imprisoned February through October. Then, for the next 92 days, it’s Rumspringa. It’s The Purge. A furlough to my life sentence without parole.
I talk to you daily and I don’t know if you can hear me but I find comfort in the hope that you can. I like to tell you how absurd our family is being, how wild your niece and nephews are, how the wrinkles boldly appearing on my face from years of animated expressions make me wish I was born with a calmer personality.
I wear your jewelry daily. I use your lemon squeezer. I wear the t-shirt you designed. I drink from the coffee cup you gave me. I buy the crackers you told me about. All of this makes me feel you are with me as I navigate this life. Without you.
Happy Birthday, Sussin. I miss you every day, vehemently - but today, I miss you even more.
