You called and then you missed my birthday; You've gone and left me on my own

Next week is my birthday, and I’m trying to become invisible.

Some years are like this, grief-y, weird, volatile. Last year was absurdly not that, even though it was the first one after my mom died, 3 months to the day.

Maybe it hadn’t sunk in yet, maybe I was too preoccupied with marveling at making it to a milestone birthday that had always felt like a far-off consideration.

But this year is heavy again, and I feel low and embarrassed, almost hoping no one remembers, wondering if I’ll regret the lengths I’ve gone to make that happen (deactivating Facebook so the almost-strangers on my friends list aren’t notified; asking the office manager not to announce it in our Birthday Slack Channel). I’m taking off the days before and after, a staycation with goals to get the house in order, though I’m finally relenting at allowing myself to have fun, too. I bought a birthday dress at my favorite consignment shop. I looked up admission hours for a museum I’ve wanted to revisit, and saw that they have a cafe onsite with a good-looking lunch menu. I’m allowing myself to feel excited for these plans.

It’s hard to explain the things I’m mourning—in many ways, it’s the absence of what I don’t know. The details of my birthday that I do not remember and will never know, the intimate moments between my mom and me, while she was preparing to bring me into the world, as she was becoming a mother for the second time, but first time to a daughter. What was she thinking? What was labor like for her? What stood out the most to her about that day? Those details are lost now, gone with her to wherever she went, slightly out of reach but still so incredibly close. It’s hard to realize you’re life is already starting to fade, even while you’re still here, that sometimes the only proof you have of existing at all is that you’re here, feeling sorry for yourself that you can’t remember more.

It’s hard to realize that grief is forever, that mourning does not end after a calendar year. That every celebration, every triumph, every major turning point, will be seen through the lens of heartache, however slight, that you will always wish for someone who’s not there to share it with.