Sometimes it takes me by surprise when grief falls upon me at certain times of the year. You would think I’d expect it by now. Sometimes, though, as years go by, the days I expect to be heavy are not as heavy as before. This year, though, as hints of Spring start appearing, I am reminded that this is a season of grief. March brings memories of my father’s illness, with Easter and memories of his death bearing down. The end of March will always bring with it the heaviness of loss of our second lost baby, River, the cosmic joke of bleeding out our dream on April Fool’s Day. And April brings both the anniversary of Dad’s death and the birthday of our late nephew, who should be 19 this year.
Somehow the grief is easier to embrace and not feel I need to hide in November and December, when the world is dark and dreary and everything seems to be grieving with me. Spring is supposed to be hopeful, a time of new life, new beginnings, joy and celebration. We aren’t supposed to be sad. And yet we are. Death does not always come at fitting times of the year. It comes when it chooses, sometimes heaping itself upon other, older griefs. And we have to deal with it, no matter how inconvenient.
If you are fighting tears when everyone around you seems uplifted by lengthening days and warming temperatures, know that you are not alone. We are in this together.