I know it is coming just like someone with arthritis feels the chill in the bones.
The air feels denser and oppressive. It is always too hot and the days seem long and annoying. I ache, and my mood plunge.
It is not that I do not feel the grief at other times of the year. I do, unpredictable as it has become. But as time wore on, grief wears softer, like an old T-shirt washed many times, its fibers all soft and forgiving, and one reaches out and puts it on without much deliberation.
But in July, the grief is always jarring, demanding attention. And I have to abide- literally wilting under the glare of its hot stare.
It is uncomfortable, because at other times I hardly talk about Ferdinand anymore, except with those in the circle.
Yet it is comforting in an odd way, knowing that my body instinctively remembers.
The time is here again, when my mind swims with memories, stars, ruby shades and disbelief. My body aches all over and my world seems to warp in dangerous ways that threatens to shatter.
I open the door to a dusty, empty room. I sit, and I wait. Perhaps he will knock.
“Sometimes,’ said Pooh, ‘the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.” ~ A.A. Milne