Something about May

             Thank goodness it’s over. May is not my favorite month. I apologize to the person reading this if he or she celebrates a birthday in May and looks forward to awesome festivities every year. I apologize if you are a mother who cannot wait to be lavished with affection and gifts from adoring children on Mother’s Day. I apologize if you met the love of your life or were married in May. And I apologize to graduates everywhere because I realize May is a month of celebration and elation for those who are moving on, who have made it to the next plateau.

My birthday is in September, not May; Mother’s Day often leaves me feeling sad even if I’m not totally neglected; I met my love in December . . . and as for graduations? I have graduated quite a few times so that’s behind me now. I remember, but I don’t dwell. Graduations simply allowed me to see to my future, which brings me to my point about May.

We can “see” to a future, but we cannot see “into” it. How could I possibly have known that the month of May would make me feel as though I was tied up in knots? How could I have known, and how could anyone else know, that crawling out of bed on any May morning is hard . . . hard because memories bombard me. The fact is that I never could have foreseen that I would lose my first-born son in May. His death from brain cancer on May 24, 2013, was the saddest day of my life; yet the early weeks of May were horrendous as well. Recalling those days, when he declined, wrench my heart; they make me cry all over again. They were awful. I’m not writing this for sympathy, but perhaps simply for understanding, because now that June has arrived, I realize I made it through another May. I am able to breathe a bit easier . . . and I am able to understand as well. Perhaps someone else has been dreading June.

Everyone has “a month” I suppose, for who of us have not suffered loss - a son, a daughter, a parent, a partner, or even a pet? When we approach those marker months, we remember, and we are apt to grieve deeply all over again, at least for a spell and that’s okay. It’s not so much about sorrow as it is love. And that’s a good thing. So, good-bye, May. I’m glad to see you go. We’ll meet up again next year and I’ll be ready for you.