It’s been 17 years, or 6,210 days, give or take one due to the uncertainty of the day emblazoned on the calendar. 

Some years, it is sufficient to look at her family tree and at the countless pictures I indexed for those wishing to remember. 

I’m more of a spontaneous remembrance person, allowing random moments to drag me into the past.  

The bridge that might transport me back is a duality of both distance and proximity. Everyone who gets old enough feels the clock spinning like a roulette wheel, for its speed and also for the uncertainty regarding where its stop whimsically occurs. 

Even if we’re unaware of our demarcations, we divide our lives in to eras. Most of our demarcations are passive. Childhood. Graduation. A child. And the rest launch from the magical yet persistently somber consequence of being alive in this world.

I had my turnstile moment this morning. Disrespect pushed me into a flare of brilliant anger. Because of the anniversary, I didn’t need to think about how I should probably respond. Anger is a call to action for remedy or an immobilizing force. I never need to intellectualize how she might have reacted. If something made her mad, it was a certainty that those around her would not need a soothsayer or psychic. The words would flow with a grimace to match. 

I managed to merge and juxtapose her reaction with my natural inclination. The words came. Those who’ve ridden the ride and exited the fairgrounds know the stupidity of living inauthentically. Once your ticket is torn and handed it to you, the clock is already spinning. 

And so through these words that will seem vague to many and perceptively painful for others, I tell you that it’s a dangerous game to be reminded. 

I did not have a ticket rendered in two pieces in my hand today. It was given to me 57 years ago. 17 years ago, I had to come to terms with the fact that it probably should have been my ticket being requested.

I was supposed to use the alchemy of motivation and memory to live unapologetically. She handed me the baton and pointed me in the right direction. 

When the weather chills in early September, even my oblivious bones haunt me a little. 

That’s the way it’s supposed to be. 

We are all busy and occupied instead of being purposeful and satisfied. 

She whispers. 

And I listen. 

Love, X

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