This godforsaken day.
It comes every year.
Just as it is supposed to.
All the days in between are tough enough, but this day?
This day is the worst.
Eight years ago today I lost both my parents.
Both of them.
At the same time.
Most people who know me or who have been reading Letters For Lucas for any length of time know the story, but in case you don’t, they died of carbon monoxide poisoning in their home while living and working in Tunisia. You can read more here.
I hate this day.
I’m more raw, irritable and melancholy than usual on the anniversary.
I swore to myself I wasn’t going to write or post anything today but I had to because, this day.
If I didn’t acknowledge today, I’d feel like I was doing my parents a disservice, as strange as that sounds. I know I don’t need to prove to anyone how much I miss them, how my heart aches that they will never know my children, how every single time I look into my son’s eyes, I see my father, that I wish I could hear their laughter again and feel their arms around me.
Grief is such a bitch. It knows how to turn you completely inside outside every chance it gets. Especially on days like today.
I thought I knew what a broken heart was last year and the year before that and the year before that, how it felt and what it looked like. I didn’t know anything.
After eight years it still hurts.