Looking Down

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.