Eternal Memory Closing

So there you have it...my morbidly depressing obsession with death.  I couldn't help it: 3 people in 12 months poofed and they kept dying.  When Anya was born I squirmed thinking that I had 3 full sets of grandparents - both maternal, paternal and great grandparents; Anya has 1 full set and her matriarchs.  The Estrogen House...perhaps there's something to be said about the women in her blood line.

Reading over my piece I heard my heart weeping; I felt pangs of ache being transported to a time that seems foreign to me now.  I'm glad I have these writings,  otherwise,  memory distorts the emotions and images and scenes.  Every year when the anniversaries arrive I know I am sad and it feels like yesterday, but the deep, penetrating sorrow has morphed into quiet reverence.  In some respects I feel guilty, like I'm betraying my ancestors or denying their due, like the expectations at a "Greece" Greek funeral. 

I also consider my post partum world...it was not much different than the place I found myself during the year of The River Styx.  I felt unreal.  During my father's last year and the one that followed there was no ability to comprehend the reality of life and inevitability of death and loss and being alone, and during my post partum year-ish the pain of change, confusion and physical suffering brought me back to that world of suffocating and abyssmal existence.

If I were to hold some philisophical discussion with myself I would bring out the big hitters and see how they would disect and process my perceptions.  Perhaps for another day as I'm too spent.  It's also, my birthday...a day quickly losing it's flavor in my annual celebrations - merely a reminder that one day my little Anya will hurt as I have and I can't bear to fathom those concepts.

Today I close my closet door, asking that my gremlins and trolls and furry monsters grant me a day or two of sunshine and smiles as I enter into the year before I am...not young any longer.