Year after year this date greets me in many different way I can never accurately predict. It used to feel like an attack—an onslaught of sadness and so many other overwhelming feelings. I dreaded this date. But, over these thirteen years (I can’t believe it’s been thirteen years), it’s become gentler. Subtler. Signs of healing showed themselves each year.

Sometimes there is nothing. No void. No emptiness to fill. And others, in the days leading up to today, I begin to feel tired. Achy. My brain felt muddled and I struggled to be productive. Not all the time. Intermittently. But certainly more than usual. I suppose this date needed attention this year for a few reasons I think I understand.

I thought I’d made peace with this date—surrendered to it long ago. But maybe it’s not possible to casually nod and continue on my way. Not always, at least. Not every year. And it would seem certainly not the thirteenth year.

But with the benefit of thirteen year’s experience, writing my feelings and casting them into the ether of the internet is usually cathartic magic that not only unlocks the gears that seem to be gummed up, but continues to fulfill a promise I made to Ken.

Grief can live and breathe. But not to harm you. To remind you of the love you still have within you. To remind me to continue to express it. For myself. For Ken. And for everyone who has experienced it.