A Month

I have a calendar in my bedroom at my apartment.  It's one of the 'a day' calendars, where you tear off the page every day.  Mine's a book of the day one.  I used to be pretty diligent about tearing off the pages, excited to see what the next book would be, and if it sparked my interest, I would save the page.  But now my calendar sits there, silently marking time.  The page remains, and though I've gone to tear it off a few times, thinking "This is silly, I have other things to remember him by" and "He wouldn't want me to mope about and be melancholy,"  something always stops me.  I don't know if it's sentimentality, or foolish folly, but I cannot bring myself to tear the pages off.  I know it's real.  Trust me, I know it's real.  I've talked to people I haven't talked to in years more often in the last month than I think we've ever talked.  But it's not really the same.  Nothing really ever is the same after something like this.  We just have to adapt to the change.  And I am, slowly.  But until I do for good, that calendar page will stay where it is, reminding me of the day that everything changed.