Twenty-one years I am mourning.
I am caught off guard by it yet again. Heading up the canyon for a run in the woods, I look down at my phone and see it. August 4. My throat closes up and my teeth clench. I wish it would pour buckets of rain. I wish lightning would crack and trees would blow over, and I’d run like a beast through the storm, my tears mixing with the mud and washing down the mountain. But it’s sunny and warm and the dust kicked up by the mountain bikes rattling down the trail sticks in my wheezing throat. I wish I had a piece of him to carry with me: a lock of hair or a finger bone. I want to bury my sorrow in some black, gothic death ritual involving ravens and full moons and vials of blood from the deceased. But these are the mementos of other centuries. We have the clean snap of steel latches clicking shut, and lawns mowed smooth over headstones set flush with the ground for convenience.