Time measures everything- beginnings, ends, durations, and intervals. It is an inescapable current. The anniversary of my mother’s death will always be difficult for me, not only because I can’t help but relive the memory of the worst day of my life but also because it measures another year of separation; the passing of another mile marker while her memory shrinks in the rearview mirror. My mom is cemented on the point that marks that November night, while the current of time is always carrying me further away. Sure, time heals, or at least softens, the kind of wounds that result from an untimely death. But the passage of time has induced a different kind of ache where, every year, the distance between her end and my present grows wider and heavier.
