WordPress notified me recently that I’d reached my first anniversary. That was, I dunno, a week or two ago.
I dwelt for a moment on my first post, which was when my son was sleeping on a mattress on my floor talking about our wifi connection. It was almost a sweet memory. He seemed a lot littler a year ago. Definitely more vulnerable.
Then I let it pass. Because you know what? I’m sick of anniversaries. The first year of widowhood is passed by marking the dates–his first birthday without him, our first wedding anniversary without him, first Thanksgiving without him, and so on. You begin to accumulate holidays you thought you never cared about, including the Hallmark holidays.
Now we’re in the second year, and I mark those anniversaries as some kind of obligation. Now it’s the first birthday without him in which we don’t fall apart, and so on. Or maybe we will fall apart. It’s hard to know. Each of these dates is marked by a gauge, a wary looking around and asking “How we doin’?”
I’m so tired of assessing our collective mental stability. I’m so tired of holidays, still. I’m so weary of anniversaries.
So, thanks, WordPress for acknowledging my blogging anniversary. I’m glad I am keeping this blog as a record of this wretched journey. I am immensely grateful to the folks I’ve connected with here. But I don’t collect anniversary dates anymore. That’s too much weight to carry around.