It's that time of year. Autumn is the winter of my discontent. Made glorious by the confluence of events brought forth on these rust colored days. As often as I make a practice of finding the sunny side of life, I am acutely aware of the constellation of Orion in the night sky. It was there years ago, and years and years ago, and will probably be there a year from now. That group of stars stand as a reminder of the season. A season for departure.
It is difficult, if not impossible, to hide the Darren-sized hole in my life as we close up October and get ready to plunge into November and darker places. Every attempt I make to be amusing is measured by that Okie from Muskogee. I have lived another lifetime since he drove off into the sunset, but letting go isn't something I do with funny people easily. Funny and caring people. Funny and caring and mildly tortured. Over the past couple decades, I have run scenarios that try to track Darren into adulthood, and they tend to come up a little empty. The truth is that I have no idea what he would have been if he had "grown up." And every October, that bothers me. I can't shake it. Apologies to all the friends and therapists and friendly therapists who imagined that I would be over this by now. Each time I make that big turn into Halloween, I feel that loss.
My dog did me a favor, I suppose, years later for picking that same fated date on the calendar for her grand exit. Hers was a quieter, more stately passing, but I wasn't quite ready to be without a dog. I still had need of dog, but I suppose I have lived most of my life that way. Why haven't we replaced our dog?
Because I couldn't replace Darren. I couldn't replace Maddie. They are those pictures in my life's slideshow where I pause and remember all that was and how they made me feel. Happy. There aren't enough of those. Especially in October, tumbling toward November, in which I confront the passing of my father.
And Orion is up there, looking down from the darkness.
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