Anniversaries

It is just history… some people always will care: Survivors of wars, people who fought for the treaty, the organization, people who worked to create the building, people who gave birth or witnessed the birth of someone loved.

And someone lost.

Someone gone.

Someone dead.

A loved one robbed from us.

A loved one taken away.

A loved one gone.

Because, truth be told and truth be real, there are more anniversaries than those we think first of. There are more than those with sweet aftertaste we like and prefer, there are more than those with that comfortable feeling inside of us all because another year has passed to celebrate what you or your ancestors have achieved, another year has passed to celebrate a new life born, a life that grew and became more mature with each passing year, another year has passed to celebrate another year of steadfastness.

The second kind of anniversaries, which we like to forget about, which we like to ignore what is understandable, is the hardest. The oceans of tears this sort of causes us to cry is saltier than anything, even saltier than the water of the Death Sea. Its aftertaste is even worse. It burns hot inside of us all, closes our throats and threatens to suffocate us. This sort of anniversary eats at our substances, lets us cry out in the deepest pain and most agonizing anguish nothing and no one else in the world, in the whole universe even, could cause. This kind of celebration is driving us insane, killing us inside. It ribs out our beating hearts, which we detest at these days because of their beating and it lets our blood freeze from a kind of ache no one and nothing could ever cure.

The anniversary of a loved one's death.

This is the day, we return to the graveyards, walk along the rows of last rest beds, stand at our loved ones graves and cry.

This is the day, we cry because we are alive.

We are survivors.

We are not dead.

At least not physically.

But a part of us lies already under the earth no matter that our hearts are still beating, that our lungs are still moving and that we are still alive.

It is the anniversary of a loved one's death.

That means three hundred and sixty-five days have passed since the last anniversary, or since the death.

That means fifty-two weeks have passed since then.

That means twelve months.

That means eight thousand seven hundred sixty hours.

That means five hundred and twenty-two thousand six hundred minutes.

That means thirty-one millions five hundred and thirty-six thousand seconds.

That means a year.

Another year and a new birthday - just without the loved one.

No more shared memories.

No more shared happiness.

No more shared tears.

No more shared laughs.

No more.

Just no more.

But more pain.

Double pain at least because we cannot share it with the loved one lost.

More pain.

Double pain squared, cubed even.

More pain.

A pain to the power of thirty-one million five hundred and thirty-six thousand multiplied by the number of anniversary times by the seconds of anguish.

And that is just a weak image of the actual pain.

It is said the pain to become less with time passing, one day reaching and remaining at a level you are able to bear. It is said that we all have to move on and sadly we do. What else is left to do?

We could follow the loved one. But he would hate us.

We could follow the loved one. But we would cause even more pain among our loved ones alive.

We could follow the loved one. But we would leave the others without our shoulder to cry on.

We could follow the loved one. But we would hate ourselves.

We are to live.