By Sara Barry
“How are you doing?” a friend asked, knowing that May is a charged month.
Mother’s Day is a complicated tangle of breakfast in bed and flowering plants, homemade cards, and immersion in what is with an undercurrent of what was supposed to be. What was and then wasn’t and always is.
The end of the month brings the birthday with nobody to blow out the candles. And while I have a tradition, one I fell into rather than creating deliberately, of tending my Henry’s garden since I can’t tend to him, it is another complicated tangle. Joy for his being. Sadness that he isn’t here. Edges softened over time, like a rock in running stream.
“I’m doing OK,” I say. “I’ve been so busy, I keep forgetting it’s May.”
And it’s true. I’m not deliberately avoiding facing this month, but I’ve been caught up in a swirl of Science Night planning and late evening ice cream, Teacher Appreciation and getting the garden ready.
My mind is busy. I forgot that Mother’s Day was coming, despite the signs by the flower store and the notification in my calendar. Henry’s birthday loomed and I hadn’t bought anything for his garden. I hadn’t looked to see if our neighbors would be home for cake.
My mind keeps forgetting that it is May, but my body knows.
I’ve felt it in the number of times I need to take a deep breath, in and out.
I’ve felt it in the tightness across my back and in the heaviness that settles in my limbs and then lifts a little.
I notice the sharp intake of breath when I see a cardinal dart across the yard.
I tense at the unexpected mention of a 6 month old named Henry who died from a heart defect in a novel about the flu.
I come to tears easily, whether it’s a video about babyloss moms or talking to my neighbor about her own different, fresh grief.
I find myself on the verge at church for no explainable reason at all.
I don’t say, “I’m having a hard month.” I’m not, but there is an undercurrent. My body knows what month this is. It is gathering energy like a storm moving in. The sky may still be sunny, but you can feel a change in the air, an electrical build up.
Come the end of the month, I will exhale. The pent up energy will expend itself in a torrent of tears or day of hard labor in the garden or it will just fizzle out and fade away like a storm that is pending but passes.
Come the end of the month, my body will relax and move on to June, a simpler month, a safer month. It will relax until the calendar turns to December, and then, even if I forget the date, it will start it’s wind up to the day he died.
The mind may forget, but the body always knows.
Does your body respond to certain dates? How does grief show up in your body?