Cyclic Misfortune

On November 10th, 2016, I would come to see the age of 26.

26 years of life on Earth. 

312 months. 

9,490 days.

A birthday.

On November 25th, 2016, my partner would come to see the age of 30 and my father would die.

A birthday.

A death day.

On January 14, 2017, my sister would turn the ripe old age of 29.

I'd become engaged in January 16th, 2017.

3 days later, my Uncle would die.

A birthday. 

An engagement.

A death day.

Come February 7th, 2017 and my Mother would turn 53.

I'd send her a cozy blanket to her new home in Virginia.

It's cold up there in February.

She'd call and thank me.

She'd speak to my girls.

We'd talk wedding plans.

Four days later, my Mother would die.

I'd wonder why, or how, or who. I'd lose my conviction to the chaos of life and reel it in again. I'd seek out comfort. I'd seek out hope. I would even seek out a conclusive definition to life's cruel intentions, but to no avail.

 It's like drowning. 

Gasping.

Clawing at the surface. 

Shooting needles through my lungs. 

Bubbles rise and break the surface.

 Sometimes, you can hear seagulls or ambient oceanic sounds that remind you, even though you are being sucked into the abysmal depths of the ocean floor, the world continues to breathe. 

Sometimes, you brace for sleep only to be jolted awake.

Right now, at this very moment, I'm sailing off in a life boat, still shivering and wet, but alive and forever grateful for the rescue team.

A portion of my father's ashes sit above the bar in my living room, alongside his prized harmonica.

A poem that my uncle wrote rests atop a bookshelf.

My mother is ingrained in every thing I say or do or think. 

The show, as they say, must go on.