The anniversary of the worst day of my life

The day that will always hit me hardest is February 6th. That’s the day that my mother died. I am Jewish and was raised well, but I’m not devout enough to really think in terms of the Jewish calendar.

I am, however, following the Jewish calendar for the observance of my Mom’s death. This year, the day of the Jewish calendar matching the day of my mother’s death last year is today.

So, last night I lit a Yahrzeit candle and said the appropriate prayers. I cried, and Marc hugged me to help me through it. I’ll cry and need hugs again on February 6th, of course. Maybe having two anniversaries of this tragedy will help me heal.

I just can’t believe that a year has passed—in any calendar—since I lost her. When my Dad died, I couldn’t understand how the world kept going. I have a similar feeling regarding my Mom, but I feel more lost without her and can’t quite comprehend how I keep going.

I know I was lucky. I had wonderful parents who loved me more than anything. The problem is, they’re gone now. Perhaps their souls are in paradise, as one of the prayers says, but I’m selfish. I want them back.

If there is any justice in this world, they are in paradise. More importantly, they’re together. I know very well that they’d rather be together in the worst of times than apart in paradise. So I hope you’re together and happy, Mom and Dad. I’m trying to stay strong here, but it’s very difficult. I miss you more than I could ever say.