Time, Whether You Like it Or Not

My employer has a pretty generous vacation plan. Very little can be rolled over to next year, but each year starts over with a hella good plan and the upper bosses want you to take it, expect you to take it. It's a job benefit they helped build and that's what they want. My vacation, our vacation, was set for September long before MyJamie died. Before my Daddy died. Before their daddy died. Here comes September. I don't want vacation. Or my birthday next month. Or Christmas a few months after. I would be happy enough to skip all that shit and pretend none of it happens, none of it happened, none of it will happen. It's coming though, isn't it. Some well intentioned friend will text me the morning of my birthday. Somebody will buy me a Christmas gift. Somebody will encourage me to "enjoy it" because they wouldn't want me to be sad. And I will choke back a hearty "fuck you" because they were the reasons I enjoyed those days. But that's not what I meant to write about, not what I meant to post. I meant to write that a friend since 9th grade - and to put a date on me that's 1983 - a friend of mine since 9th grade called me a few weeks ago when she found out Jamie had died. She's a social worker and does primarily hospice. A lovely lady with her own bucket full of grief. I've been at the church for the funerals of both of her parents and I knew 3 siblings who died with complications of horrible diseases. She understands grief. She understands the feelings. The futility. The frustrations. The rage. She said so. They have a small cabin on the banks of a river in Arkansas. Though I grew up in Arkansas, it didn't give me a pass to the whole state. I don't think I've been to this place. "We have a cabin. You should go." I gave in and told her when we have vacation. Those dates are open. Those are the dates the first time in over 15 years I'll pack a bag to leave without Jamie. The first time in 15 years I'll go somewhere without Jamie. The first time in 15 years I'll sit beside MyFella and hold his hand for a trip without MyJamie playing with my hear from behind, or holding my outstretched hand as I hold one hand with him and one with MyFella. One of MyFella's best friends keeps telling us that "all the firsts will be hard." But honestly Monday morning is hard. Friday night is hard. Saturday morning is hard. It's all so hard.