My Aunt called me today to see what I was doing on Sunday.
"Nothing" I replied
"well, Sunday is the anniversary of the day your Dad died" she told me.
My heart hit the floor.
"Oh, yeah, Oh I know, I just didn't know what you meant by doing, yeah well, I will be at the cemetery" I stumbled realizing what kind of idiot I was.
I knew the date my father died, the 5th. Always 5 was my lucky number, the day he died it was no longer.
I hate February, I hate the 5th, I hate cancer, I hate New York, I hate God, I hate living so far away, I hate the winter, I repeated to myself over and over that cold day in February.
It was my mantra.
Into the tunnel: I hate February.
Through central park: I hate cancer.
Into the cavernous parking structure: I hate New York.
Passed the floors and floors of people struggling for life: I hate God.
Into the bathroom to throw up before I could make myself enter his room: I hate living so far away.
It was the day I rushed to New York to the best cancer hospital in the world, only to learn I was too late to say goodbye to my Father.
He was gone.
I hate February, I hate the 5th, I hate cancer, I hate New York, I hate God, I hate living so damn far away, I hate winter.
And now, just two years after that day changed my life forever, I had forgotten.
I could make excuses about my own health, my busied life, that time is slipping by faster now, but nothing will make me feel better about it.
I am sure that I would have remembered eventually, just like the pain when I wake in the moring.
What kind of daughter could I be?
In February, on the 5th, in New York, so far away in the long, cold winter.
1 month ago