Thursday, November 15, 2012
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.