“I am going to try to pay attention to the spring. I am going to look around at all the flowers, and look up at the hectic trees. I am going to close my eyes and listen.”
— ANNE LAMOTT
I have already been subsumed with the looming date that marks that most horrific of anniversaries. Four years and eleven months is both an eternity and a moment. My body feels what my mind forever refuses to comprehend, and there is a vortex inside of me that threatens to pull me back into the blackness. I go to the woods to visit, to try and find her, and I see them. Small, impermanent, and silently beautiful, the wild flowers that adorn her spot are the simple gifts patiently waiting to be given to those who pay attention. The vortex doesn’t spin quite as fast.