Summer, your favorite season. The season of your birthday and your beloved shouting stars. For almost three years now, each summer without you has been different.
The third summer marks the end of the grieving time according to the official grieving calendars that you find sometimes in magazines. The one with the four phases, the superficial analysis and the empty words. Beyond those useless articles, I have read a lot of books on grief and death. I wanted to understand the codes of this new universe we had been unexpectedly sucked into. These books would talk about a grieving time too.
On the first summer, I was angry at life sparkling everywhere while you were not here anymore. The first anniversary was close. For too long I had been seeing our parents waking up everyday, keeping it together with an admirable strength. It has been dad’s last summer. It felt like we had never left the hospital.
On the second summer, promises for the forthcoming seasons started to bloom. In spite of an immense sadness, I never stopped believing in Life. In the middle of our road trip in Wales, I felt the first light moves of our baby inside of me.
On the third summer, I will remember the first spoons of carrot purée, small feet discovering the sea, and this tinkling laugh just like yours. Afternoons are spent behind the blinds while my restless mind travels towards fresh mountains and spectacular fjords. I haven’t open a book on reincarnation or jewish mysticism in months.
It’s the third summer. Sometimes, like a lost kitten I hold on to the few pieces of dust you’ve left while passing on Earth. I dive into the smell of the scarf I am keeping in a box by my side table. I read our conversations on msn or email. But you know, I am getting tired of endlessly watching the same pictures. I am slowly detaching myself from these frozen relics when I think about you. You were much more than what you’ve left here, and you still are. This is what some books were saying and what I was finding difficult to believe. Now our relationship lives inside of me.
It’s the third summer, before the fourth autumn without you.