Evie, my love
My beautiful, sweet Evie died a year ago today. I confess that I have always been borderline skeptical of the heightened grief around the anniversaries of death, or at least saw it as a phenomenon that one has a measure of control over--giving permission to yourself to feel the pain of loss more on one day than any other. I feel weird. I don't remember the date that any of my grandparents died. I can't remember the date one of my high school friends died. I can't even remember without really wracking my brain the exact day that my uncle was killed (April 28th, I think, or maybe the 27th). I'll remember the date of Evie's death forever. I kept seeing it on my calendar and avoided looking at it. She's was as gone on March 18th, as she is today, but today is still so much harder. Evie knew nothing about personal space. I've never written about how Evie died. About what it did to me. I've thought about it nearly every day this year, but I have
