Calendar

Our bodies know when it’s been a year. They have alarms of their own that awaken us to birthdays and miseries. It’s cold now. It was cold when my dog, Beowulf, gave his final howl in my husband’s lap eight years ago. In the days before the anniversary, my skin prickles; my mood darkens.

His death isn’t written on my calendar. I don’t transfer those dates—or even birthdates—at the beginning of the year anymore. I used to look forward to that, to the annual Decoration of the Square belonging to each friend and relative. But then a pet dies, a grandmother, a father-in-law, a friend. Another dog dies, a grandfather suffers a fatal stroke, a close family friend loses her battle with cancer.

Now, with the joy of moving birthdays and anniversaries comes the pain of moving deaths we’re doomed to relive, in some small part, each year. So I forgo the ritual.

In February, my sister turns 40; in October, my husband becomes 50. I will wait, as I do now, until the page turns to their months before writing their names and ages.

Psychologists say grief decreases by half each year. When Wulf died, I was 100% grieving. I grieved 50% on the first anniversary. This year, on February 15th, Wednesday, I will begin grieving about four-tenths of a percent, two-fifths. I’m down from .8 last year.

On March 2nd, the pain of my grandmother’s death will ratchet up a notch just before it, too, settles at less than half a percentage of grief. I dream of her less; it’s true. But I remember her like yesterday when I cook or knit or have a question about cake, as I often do.

In the guest room, wedged between the night table and the purple wall, is the calendar from 1999. On January 6th, I have an elaborate marker tribute to my daughter’s first birthday. On September 7th, my nephew was born at 11:53 p.m. In that year, my cousin, my husband’s niece, and my good friend got married, the last holding his wedding on my birthday. Friends I no longer have got older, stayed married longer. I went to countless therapy and acupuncture appointments, most of which were useless in fighting my sleep troubles and my melancholia.

In 1999, I carried with me the weight of several half-strength griefs. Fifty percent of bellowing, wailing anguish is still heavy.

I reached for the calendar Saturday night, as I felt my sorrow stand up on the back of my neck, like the hair of a frightened animal. I was four days off.

This is the last calendar I have with dates of death, and I now rely on my memory and my body, which never fails to remind me that someone I love is gone. I sometimes feel guilty that I have no written record of the date of my grandfather’s death. But I know when that day comes, my bones will make that hollow sound each time I move as my soul empties for a short while, then fills back up with the love of my family and friends. Each year, that love surrounds me at full strength. One hundred percent.