Yesterday was the third anniversary of my father's death. It kind of sneaked up on me, and if I hadn't had the foresight to mark it on my calendar it probably would've passed unnoticed. There was no time for quiet reflection anyway, as I was all caught up in my weird work schedule helping train someone new at the store, trying to get someone from the police department to speak at this year's Stoker Awards Weekend, and wrestling with a stubborn article for the next issue of Annabelle. It wasn't until the evening that I even noticed the note on my calendar: the word "Dad" and a Jewish star -- my shorthand for "this is the day someone died."
Even weirder? I could have sworn it was the second anniversary, not the third. I have no idea where the time went, or even what I have to show for it besides a few published stories, yet another failed relationship and some happy video store customers.
Bah. I don't mean to sound down on myself. I just felt like I should mark the day somehow, other than looking at the calendar and thinking, Really? Already?