This past Monday marked five years since two cops appeared at my door to say that my beautiful, brilliant husband had leapt to his death from a roof near our home. Every year, I try not to dwell on the anniversary of Chris’s suicide. Every year, I fail. 
At work I hit my deadlines, chit-chatting with colleagues and making my plans for the week, all while carrying the weight of the day inside me. I didn’t want to feel it. Don’t go there, I told myself. I wanted Monday to be normal, the week to be normal, my whole life to be normal.
It isn’t, of course. But whose is? And who doesn’t carry around a pocketful of dates that throb with consequence and pain?
In remembering Chris, I try to focus on the joyous markers and all their many blessings: his birthday, our wedding day, the births of our three children. I try to dwell with gratitude on his life and lingering gifts. I want to remember the light and love in his eyes, the way he laughed and kissed and cracked a grin. The fedoras he used to wear, the bike rides he used to take: I want to remember those, too.
But even when I try hard not to focus on the anniversary of his suicide, it focuses on me. The 26th of September licks at me like the flickering tongue of a snake. I think of Chris’s profound sadness, the changes that overtook him in the months before his death and the rupture in the universe — the outrageous, senseless, gaping violation of it –that sucked him away. I think of the long day that followed. An endless day. A day that still feels like yesterday. A day that always will.
And yet a lot has happened in the five years since he died. More life, more love, more loss. I’ve traveled to Ecuador, Edinburgh, Jamaica, Yosemite. Watched one daughter graduate high school, another graduate college. Marveled at a son who turned 16, filled with strength and kindness. Wrote a book about grief. Told a story for “The Moth.” Did a Tedx talk. Buried my second mother and my best friend. Held my baby grandniece — Chris’s baby grandniece, the most perfect creature you’ve ever seen, born to parents who wed on Chris’s birthday. Laughed.
I got laid off from one paper and hired back by another. Started this crazy blog. Took up jazz fiddle. Shoved the piano into the living room (alone). Contemplated getting a tattoo (still contemplating). Adopted two kittens. Made new friends. Turned 49, then 50, then 51, then 52, then 53.
So here I am, a little older and grayer, a little creakier, a little more arthritic in my knees and lower back, but not yet as old or gray or creaky or arthritic as I’ll be tomorrow. In another two years I’ll be 55, Chris’s age when he died. Yet more life will have passed, then more life, then more.
I believe in the eternity of the human soul. I believe in the solidity of human love. I believe that souls are love, and eternity is solid, and no one who spends his life embracing and lifting others is ever truly gone. I’ll see Chris again, of that I’m sure. But not right now. Not right here. My job is to be in this world, going about the business of living with whatever faith and relish I can muster.
So, no, I didn’t want to dwell on the anniversary of his death. But dwell indeed I did, all through Monday and the week that followed, thinking about the permanence of a moment and the transience of a life. Five years are forever. Five years are gone. How strange, that I lived five years without him.
Figuring. Shit. Out. 
((((HUGS)))) to you, Amy. Because you have traversed this difficult path in life with such gusto and resolve, you should deservedly feel so proud.
Hugs, Amy…You are truly an amazing woman. Do you have copies of your new book?
Thanks so much, Kris. Hugs back. And you mean, newer than “FSO”? Afraid not.
Thanks for your reflections – will have my own – Oct 6.
Thank you, Steve. I look forward to reading them.
I appreciate it when you don’t blunt your posts with humor. It’s nice to read the raw emotion and actually feel in my bones what you are talking about. Thank you.
Thank you, Holly. Sometimes the humor just comes. Sometimes there’s no room for it. This was that!
Much love on this day…and all days. Your writing moves my soul.
Thank you, dear friend. ❤
I feel you pain. As I wrote you in a pm, we lost our son (44) to depression 3 years ago this month. Be strong!
Thank you, Jim. And bless you. But sometimes I think being strong is just realizing I’m broken, you know?
Eloquent and touching! Thanks for making me realize early on a Monday morning that every moment is a gift. Nothing is a given. Bless you on your forever more. 🙏😊
Thank you so much, Misa. Bless you, too!
Love you
Love you too!
Three years for me on Wednesday. And yeah. What you said. I’m observing it by going to a sports bar to watch the Mets play in the wild card game. I call the place I’m in now “happy-esque.”
“Happy-esque” — I like that. I hope the Mets win. (Me, I’ve been watching the original “Star Trek” with my son.)
Dear Amy, Thank you deeply for sharing your thoughts. They resonate. It took me 20 years to stop some of those feelings – as you can see from the 15th year of 9/11 coverage it does feel like a day and an eternity at the same time. I believe it is a testament to love.
Thank you also for the photo – now I know I saw him many times outside of School 19 and in the old APL branch that used to be there. Always kind, polite, present.
Lauren, thank you so much for reading and posting your kind words here. And thanks for the memories of Chris outside 19. I remember him there each time I drive past — and yes, he was always kind, polite, present. Again, thank you.
Huh, September 26? My late father’s birthday. He would have 90. And my daughter’s half birthday. She’s 12 and a half. I’ll always remember the date now for another reason. http://www.rogerogreen.com/2016/09/25/dad-would-be-90/
Thank you, Roger. And now I’ll know it as your father’s birthday — an extra layer of happiness on the date, along with my nephew’s wedding day.
Amy
Your sharing us so rich. Thank you for doing so. I appreciate your faith that you’ll see Chris again – my hope to see my Dad again someday as well.
Peace and know you don’t walk alone.
Jon
Thank you, Jon! And bless you. Peace back.