Everything happens in 3’s.
Or so we are told.
There is a lot of truth in that, at least for me. 3’s can be anything.
These 3 to me, are punches. All right in your stomach. Worst part is that you are expecting them and they still hurt.
One, two and three. As fast as you can say that, there they are.
At least the first year.
The second year, you start thinking about it 3 months out. You are defeated by the time they come.
One, two and three.
The pain is indescribable. Not outwardly, but inside, it is nauseating.
The third year though, something changes.
I don’t know what exactly, but it does because the first punch, it hurts, but nowhere near like in the past. Something is missing. And that is good.
The second punch, you don’t even feel it. You know it is coming but nothing is there. In fact, you almost forget about it.
Third punch is nil. Nothing again.
In fact, before the third punch, you get a little cocky. “Not anymore,” you say. Loud at first. Then louder and finally, you scream it out. “NOT ANYMORE!”
And it is gone.
Mother’s Day, my mom’s passing and her birthday, are all basically back to back to back.
July 10th is her birthday.
It was the toughest of the blows. The toughest punch that grief gave me.
Why her birthday? I don’t know.
All I know is that the punches don’t hurt anymore like they did.
And for that, I am grateful.
Happy Birthday Mom.