March 11 is my day to feel depressed. I could never forget her birthday, because it was two days after mine, and she was my baby sister, 11 years younger than I am. I remember how she’d hold my hand as we walked down to the store for candy to celebrate, and how she would pop her head out the door and sing-song about how I had a girl friend when I was walking home from school with, OK, a girl, and sure, I would marry her several years later, but that was just premature. And embarrassing, as little sisters can be.
And then she died, and I’m stuck thinking of her every March, and more often. Dammit. Why doesn’t grief ever die?
One last walk to the candy store? I’ll get you whatever you want, I promise.