The date of Brandon's disincarnation has come and gone for a second year. The date is one thing but I am more moved by the day of the week. This year the date was a Monday, but the day of the week forever remains Saturday. Then there are the days in between disincarnation and the funeral Mass celebrating Brandon's life followed by his cremation. (And who came up with the tacky term "cremains"?)
I expected a less-than-pleasant first week of June, but the intensity of feeling was unexpected. In many ways it hit harder this year than last. The sadness of missing someone so essential, so much a part of who I am is indescribable. (Being an intrinsic aspect of one's "becoming" changes a woman forever, and the child becomes part of the mother in a literal and figurative way.) The sadness of missing him came in waves of what felt like punches to the gut. It came with heart palpitations and a heaviness in my chest. The word "heartache" is so very apt.
Once past the days of the week and the dates on a calendar, I returned to my cute little vacation home in the land of Denial for a needed hiatus. Not sure how long I'll stay, but at least I can begin to appreciate the beauties that are June.
That Brandon's disincarnation occurred in June creates a dichotomy. June has always been my favorite month with its magic, but now it is also my worst. How can such profound sadness possibly co-exist with the flowers, fragrances and fireflies of the month? (And some years June has also been the month when I've been privileged to watch the fairies dance.) However, I feel both the sadness and the joy that is June.
Somehow I can't quite believe this is coincidence.