I’ve been marking the days for at least a month. Not with a pencil or even a smear on the calendar. Just a silent ticking off of days that I noticed in my heart and quickly covered over with busy work or chocolate or wine.
The pain in my sciatic nerve keeps screaming for attention but doesn’t drown out the slow and steady movement I feel. Tiptoeing toward the wound.
On April 6, my husband will be Two Years dead. It’s coming and I can’t stop it.
Can’t. Stop it.
On April 10 we would have been married 20 years.
Instead of cake there is a wound, covered over with a thin scab, but oozing and throbing all the same.
Instead of flowers, a candle and an urn.
Year One there was the a cloud of memories to cushion the reality. The arrangements, the photos, the unexpected insistence on wearing a hat to the funeral. The black wardrobe, selling the house, moving.
I barely felt the wound, back then, stunned by loss.
But now, as Year Two counts down like a water drip of torture, I feel the soreness from here. The wound is advanced, sloughing away the scab in an instant as I stop tiptoeing and run to the wound, dive in.
Swallow me, I tell the wound. Cover me. Let me disappear into the hurt.
I feel the warm, thick liquid all around, waiting to sink into the filth of death.
But instead, it’s blood. The stuff of life.
The blood of resurrection.
Because between now and April 6 there is a cross, a tomb, and a divine body that has overcome death.
My husband has been Two Years resurrected with Christ.