Seven years ago (Jesus, really?), I lost my high school sweetheart and best friend. It was and is still the worst day of my life. I don't know how a 17-year-old pulled through the trauma of seeing death up-close so early, but I'll bet it has to do with my family and friends.
Almost three years ago, I lost my amazing uncle to cancer. Though today is not the one when he drifted away, saying he had to "Go home," today is the day he would have added another notch on his belt of life. Birthdays of the fallen are just as hard as the anniversary of their deaths.
I have honored them over the years in the best way I know how: by writing about them. I wrote about the experience of losing Jeff for a creative writing class my first year at App, and poetically, I wrote about losing my uncle for my final paper in literary journalism during my last year of college.
(I've linked to the story about my uncle here. If you want to read about Jeff's story, you'll have to ask for a personal email. While I feel truth is the best policy, I know there are some people I need to protect from the pain of re-living that day.)
Today I will take it easy with my pups. I'll do some housework. I'll go to the gym as usual, then make some dinner. But I will also stop to reflect, to take time to remember. I will look back over the scraps of memories I have with these men. They will always live on with me.
And today, I will also remember the people who have always been there through this day and through thousands of others. From my best friend who always takes me to grab Mexican, to the hundreds who call or write, to my family who is also grieving, to the newest man in my life, waiting with a handpicked rose by the door when I need it most. I will remember them because they have made it possible for me to go on with this ever-mending void in my heart.
Rest easy, Jeff and Jon. We all love you beyond words.
