Over the past week, I’ve been feeling a bit off, more teary than usual, and having a hard time focusing or sleeping. I haven’t been able to pinpoint why, especially since Memorial Day weekend doesn’t spark any particular memories.

But social media has an uncanny way of reminding us of life’s events, and a post popped up, and then, I remembered. The last time we spent in our home before we moved to Canandaigua was Memorial Day weekend. The movers came on Saturday and packed the truck for delivery to our new home. We bought an air mattress and slept on the floor in the family room with our new little bulldog, Miss Tillie. We lay there, remembering our life in that home, talking and laughing about the milestones of proms and graduations, and about the kids Jack gave our garage code to, who came in and out with a “Hi, Mrs. Lombardo” or a quick comment to Chip about his S4 traded for the Jeep sitting in the driveway. (Don’t get me started on that mid-life purchase!)

Now, my chest tightens, my hands shake, I cannot sleep, and the tears just come out. And I am back in Canandaigua, all alone. I see the calendar and now understand what is happening. My soul has been counting days that I swore I wasn’t watching. We moved that Monday with excitement and hope as we started to slow down a bit and look ahead to a simpler life and the lake. It lasted for 45 days.

What is Trauma Anniversary?

So, being me, I needed to figure this out, and I started searching. Anniversary grief is a thing. Thankfully, the great minds at Johns Hopkins clearly explained what I am feeling. In summary, the anniversary of Chip’s death is just one date on the calendar, but the fallout is greater. We feel it even weeks before, and it hangs around long after. We get anxious, subconsciously thinking about it, dreading it, and waiting to figure out how to handle it.

It Was Only Forty-Five Days

Now, on this Memorial Day,  and each hereafter, my soul relives that night on the air mattress in the empty house,

Being together, remembering all we’d lived, and all we still believed was waiting for us.

We talked about lake life, swimming in the dark of night, like being 24 again,

About easy, slow mornings of Wegman’s vanilla muffins and coffee on the dock.

Married 32 years, but most thought we were newlyweds,

Always holding hands, stealing a kiss when no one was looking.

Canandaigua was fun, and while we were still working,

We had little responsibility other than to each other.

For 45 days, it felt like we’d stepped into the life we worked toward for so long,

With no idea how quickly it would be taken away.

I can see him at the kitchen counter, the night before,

Making me a Gin & Tonic and crafting plans for the weekend.

The next morning, we left the gym, and Chip wasn’t feeling right,

He has chest pains, and a few miles down the road, he collapsed.

Memorial Day starts the countdown of an invisible clock of events in my mind,

Happening without my knowledge or consent.

Maybe our souls are speaking to each other in the way they know how,

A connection that assures my mind that we really did have that kind of love.

Now, when I think about that air mattress and those late‑night cuddles and talks, it feels like watching a movie of two people who never imagined their story would end at intermission.

The Countdown and Calendar My Soul Keeps

So apparently this is why every year around this time, my body starts to fall apart a little before my mind catches up. The fact that it has been five years is no major milestone for our minds, only to our hearts and souls.

I feel the heaviness, the tight chest, the tears close to the surface, and I tell myself I’m just “off.”  But really, it’s my body remembering those 45 days and everything that came after, long before my brain looks at the calendar and understands why.

Amore mio, mi manchi.