It doesn’t get better. It just gets different.

March.  It does this to me every year.  This morning the emotions are strong and the memories are vivid.  I feel his presence as if he will walk in the room any minute now.  I’ve come to accept this pattern.  The first few years I was caught off guard.  March would roll around and I was moody and off balance.  Several times the 18th of the month snuck up on me before I realized what was happening.  Now, I anticipate the feelings, the overwhelming onslaught of memories, and the knowing that he is near.

Everywhere I go there are white-haired men with rosy cheeks and jolly laughs, people whistling show tunes, and Sinatra playing around each corner.  I hear his voice, remember his stories, and feel his embrace.  I look at my children and he is here.  In moments of doubt I hear his words, a constant reminder that I’m a good mother and I am loved.

While the spontaneous tears can be inconvenient and often embarrassing, I don’t resist anymore.  I’ve learned to embrace this time of year, to even welcome it, for at no other time is he so close to me.  The next few weeks will be filled with dreams.  He’ll speak to me in daisies and he’ll hug me close with the warm rays of Springtime sun.  Dad passed from this life 19 years ago but he didn’t go far.