I never imagined it could be so arduous existing through times of particular significance. Milestones; Stops along our journey in time like checkpoints. It is a way to measure this promised infinite certainty. And yet something so definite and reliable with all its promises of longevity mocks us with its unfair and unpredictable inconsistency among individuals, among lives. We are born, and we are given time. Time in which varies so drastically and erratically to all living things, ranging from barely a second to beyond a century. Unfairly taunting us throughout with the mystery of our given measurement. So, when a life ends and a person's time is up, we fall victim to disarray. Things like calendar dates or “anniversaries” become an anticipated cause of anxiety for those with clocks still ticking.

Then, there are the people of your present. The ticking clocks of your life whose time is altered simply by your time spent on being sad. My husband and daughters having to relinquish some of there precious time to worry, confusion and disappointment is a guilt I'll feel throughout my allotted time. If only I could return it to them... but of course. Time takes, is taken, and  denies  all requests for change. The cost of time is a high one and it issues no refunds.

Looming, living, and recovering from something that existed in the past feels like an unnecessary torture. Yet, if you’re grieving, you must endure the contradicting repetition of “irreversible succession” right into the future, taking the past along with you like an awkward, heavy carry-on. This is because, as the date creeps closer, the memories lurk alongside. Memories of how you heard, what you did, what you saw, where you were and ultimately when you knew- really knew. They’re gone. Times up. Their time, and yours with them. Ripped from worlds that revolved around them, leaving wounds behind that will never entirely heal; instead, harden into scars. Because with any wound that deep, there’s a scar.

And so the journey of grief continues with the scar it’s marked you. With effort, you learn in time to hide it. You must cover up in order to keep moving. “Just move” you tell yourself with passing time. You make a mindful decision time and time again to conceal what you don't want exposed. Layer by layer, however much it takes, you hide the evidence of the very present past- protecting everyone around you from seeing that big, ugly, irreversible scar. Because if they saw it, they’d know. That the pain from how badly you were wounded back in time, has not subsided. That your grief has visibly become part of your past, present, and future- your time of existence.

I have experienced two life-changing losses, both during the period of time labeled “summer”. Time has marked them two years apart. What drives me to incredible frustration is now the concept of years and summers apart has become grief poisoned and extraneous to me. Summer is now merely a grief catalyst. It’s measured by time and accepted blindly, but I’ve lost all acceptance or even comprehension of this notion. Summer has evolved into something else. It has taken the form of a palpable, living, and startling presence. And when it nears, it feels comparable to a monster slowly approaching from behind, leaving me helpless to its inevitable attack. All I can do is dread the vulnerability bestowed when it exposes me.

So, as the Seasons transition and the weather warms, I start to succumb to its familiarity. I find it increasingly harder to cover up. The sun and the summer weather bring me to days of the past at first, the days before a shattered heart and permanent scars. A time before I ever had to miss them. The memories I’ve tried so hard to push down all year start to surface, effortlessly and without consent. It then becomes too hot, harder to breathe even, making it impossible to stay so covered up. Layers start to shed, and that scar is ultimately revealed. And just like that, you’re back to another time in the past. Wounded, powerless, and consumed with thoughts of their cessation. When loved ones quite simply just ran out of time. And so, though left to continue forward, we relive each moment of a past event. Every second of every memory is accounted for. Time makes sure of that.

Time is tricky, I guess. And contrary to the popular yet patronizing belief, it heals nothing. When you love someone that deeply and you lose them, everything acquires complexity. Why is it that a birthday, anniversary, due date, song, place, word or any reminder has to adopt a different meaning? Grief has a power that creeps in and rearranges you, challenging your beliefs. And the hardest part is paralyzing pain behind an absence of control. We can’t bring back what we lost; who we lost. And while continuing time laden with consequences from our past is allowed,  traveling the opposite way is forbidden. We can’t go back in time. That fact is definite. It’s a helplessness known by those who’ve loved and lost. Loved and lost one whose time was so significantly linked to theirs.

Now,  passing moments are immeasurable. The sound of a ticking clock is just a melancholic tune, meaning nothing of the seconds it is meant to represent. Time-provided absences alter everything you knew, thought, and were before. Every time. Phew. Now I feel better.