Anniversaries

But rather than that, snow is covering your grave, burying the flowers I brought you yesterday, the flowers I brought you the day before yesterday, the flowers of the day before the day before yesterday, all buried under a thick cover of whiteness and pure coldness. My hands dig into the cold of my heart and they find a rose.

Yesterday I bought this rose and brought it to you. Just a single one. It is frozen now and a white layer of crystals is wrapping the tender beauty into sleep. I could wake it but I do not dare to. It is the fifty-first rose that I brought to you. May she sleep with you till nature decides to wake it and to rot it. Yesterday, it was Friday when I brought it.

Every Friday you will get a rose - for as long as I live. I long to kiss the rose whose petals are as gently as your lips. I long to kiss you. But you are down there, in that grave. Your flesh is rotting and your body is turning into a skeleton. Soon there will be just bones and someday, even the bones are gone and you are earth - fortunately at a point of time I will have followed you. Naturally or as naturally as possible.

But that is yet to come and now is today. Today, it is your anniversary of death, your first. So lets face it - I survived a year without you. I never thought it possible, thought I would sit here, thought I would never have to celebrate this kind of anniversary. I was sure someone would understand and take me to you.

However, here I am, still alive after fifty-two weeks alone.

Here I am, still breathing after three hundred and sixty-five days without you.

Here I am, my heart still beating after eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours away from your side.

Here I am, still grieving after five hundred and twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes lacking your presence.

Here I am, still hurting after thirty-one million five hundred and thirty-six thousand seconds with your love in my heart.

That makes a whole year, I never imagined to be capable of living alone, without you that is.

And yet I did.

I am still alive.

And today I hurt more than ever,

more than in those three hundred and sixty-four days,

more than in the thousands of hours,

more than in the hundred thousands seconds,

more than in the millions seconds of the past…

BECAUSE: It is the anniversary?

But it is illogical you know. Why to be especially hurt on anniversaries, why to we especially think of loved ones then. Because some scientist who lived some centuries ago decided to divide the year into twelve months, into fifty-two weeks, into three hundred and sixty-five days? Because someone felt the urge to count the days and always know when something happened?

I hurt every day, every morning, every noon, every evening and every night.