April 5, 2015
It’s been a year since that terrible Friday when Jane got the call that Hannah was dead. I’ve been anxious about the anniversary. I mentioned that to her. I told her if I was anxious how on earth must she feel? She told me she can’t miss her more than she already does. Another day doesn’t mean anything.
But anniversaries affect me. I don’t know if they affect me more than other people, but I am sensitive to them. Even ones I’m not conscious of. The gold walls of my kitchen have Hannah in them. I was painting when it happened. For a long time I couldn’t finish it. I thought maybe I’d change the color. But eventually Jane came by and said to keep it. She liked it. So I did.
So how to honor her? A planted tree? A card? A word or thought?
It falls on Easter this year. We made the cakes. We went to church and had our meal. The guests are gone. The dishes done. The lamb bone simmering. I’m packing for a trip of book talks. I worry about what to bring, the weather in California, the weight of the bag, the traffic.
Why did I not know that no one likes the lemon cake? Why do I make it year after year?
I told Jane I believe that Hannah is at peace. She looked at me and said, “Do you? Good. I like to hear that.”