27 November

Days to forget

I was standing over his mother’s grave and his friend – who makes enemies unnecessary – took that opportunity to interrogate me about my own mother’s death, calling me a bad daughter because I didn’t remember the exact date. I said nothing. I was much too polite, making my usual excuses for people whose manners are inexcusable. Four years later, he wouldn’t get off so easy. Today, the seventeenth anniversary of my mother’s death – a date I remember nowadays, though I’d just as soon forget – I would address him in English, my native language, which he doesn’t understand, and pretends he isn’t sensitive about not understanding. It wouldn’t matter what I said – The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog? – but I might just tell him the truth, that I had resolved things with my mother before she died, and that will always be a significant difference between us.

I expect I’ll forget the date of this anniversary again. I don’t recall which day my grandmother died, or Boris was murdered. I know what time of year it was when those deaths took place: my grandmother in mud season, Boris in the full of summer. It was earlier in summer when Steve and Vallie ended their lives on consecutive days, later in summer when Linda and Ernie, also on consecutive days, succumbed to illnesses. Jessica and her family were murdered in false spring.

I have not yet forgotten the date my best friend died, but I hope to. I can imagine a decade from now, musing that it was winter - it had snowed just a few flakes the evening before - but it wouldn’t be winter for long.