That Time of Year

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So January 14 was the anniversary of R Man’s death.  Several friends, including mrpeenee readers, sent charming, touching emails and some others posted about it on their sites, which I think is unbelievably sweet.  I, on the other hand, completely, totally forgot it, until I read the notes and posts.

I am not good about anniversaries, they seem to not have the significance for me they do other people.  I only remember my birthday, R Man’s birthday and the date we met, and that’s simply because it was the day before his birthday.  I know our wedding was sometime in the fall only because I remember at the party afterwards the datura on the patio was blooming.  I am one of the few people in America who can never recall the date of Christmas.  I know it’s December 24 or 25, but despite a lifetime of being reminded and looking it up (as I did just now,)  I am still never sure which it is, and on some particularly bad years, a suspicion that it might just be December 26 sneaks in.

So the date I lost R Man (cheeky bastard, sneaking off like that.)?  Not a clue.  If I hadn’t posted something about here with the specific date when it happened, I would be out of luck.

It’s not to say I have “moved on.”  I miss him every fucking day, achingly.  It’s just, as I told Secret Agent Fred when we were trading widow stories, I don’t need a peg (like an anniversary or a sad song) to hang my grief on.  It sits on my shoulder all the time and sometimes it calls my attention to itself and sometimes, mercifully, it doesn’t.  The weeks leading up to his death were the worst time in my life, miserable and exhausting and heartbreaking, and I do not need a reminder of them because believe me, I am in no danger of forgetting.

So what was I doing on the anniversary?  I don’t know, sleeping, watching porn or detective shows on TV, or obeying Saki’s commands; the yoozh.  I have a gorgeous new pair of John Varvatos boots and I’m breaking them in by wearing them around the house and trying to dance in them without actually falling down.  I hope that’s what I was doing.

About mrpeenee

A former bon vivant and terror of a number of New Orleans bars in the mad, gay 1980s, I'm now quietly retired and widowed in San Francisco. I have a crooked nose due to an unfortunate Frisbee accident.

15 responses »

  1. Those boots were made for stomping.

    Sometime in September, I was sat at the computer desk masturbating furiously when I looked at the date at the bottom of the screen and I suddenly remembered that it was the anniversary of my sister's death, it put me right off my stroke.

    “Chin up high, keep your powder dry” as good old Eartha once sang in one of her mercenary songs.

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  2. These dates have a way of coming around. Every November I think of the day that Mom died, and how six months before she was full of piss and vinegar. Life can end quickly, and sometimes – for the people we love who are in pain and aren't going to get better – not quick enough. Now my father's Yahrzeit notice (its a Jewish thing) with his date of death gets mailed to me every year. And every year I think of him, I think of what he did me, and I throw the notice in the trash. Yeah, grief reactions are all unique. Hug's sweetie.

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  3. Anniversaries of death are something I rarely remember. Just recollections of a person and the fact that they are gone. I'm saddened for my personal loss but secretly envious that they moved on to another plane and the fact that they are not suffering through all the horrible events that have occurred since their passing.

    Nice boots!

    They need a miniskirt or a pair of hot pants to showcase them correctly though.

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