The middle of December is always an odd time.
It’s not quite the heart of winter, but well within the last days of the calendar year.
Up north, if we’re quiet, we can see struggling signs of life in the snow.
Down south, there’s an almost unnatural stillness.  The trees are still green.   The sun shines, but nothing is growing.

Well, almost nothing.   This is the season for weeds and oranges.

Personally, this is an odd week for me – especially December 15.

You see, my dad died on the fifteenth.   Lost conscious when he tried to get out of bed.   was gone before he hit the floor.

My older brother, who I never met, died on the fourteenth or fifteenth.   I forget.  Died before I was born, he lived for two whole days before passing on.    Something with his lungs, I think.  The medical technology from the early 1970s is a lot different than it is now.

I don’t think I’ve come to terms with the loss.  Yes, for some reason, even the loss of my brother stays with me.   I can’t help but wonder ‘what if…. ‘ I’d be the middle child or, if my older sister would have lived, I would be the youngest instead of the oldest.
I think my life would be drastically different.

I can truly say that I’ve never come to terms with the death of my dad.
If you listen to my mom on a bad day, he certainly isn’t worth idolization and (very briefly in passing) suggested that he didn’t go to Heaven.    In a way, I don’t think she’s come to terms with it either.  But, that’s neither here nor there.

I had quietly hoped that this undeserving blight of time would be colored with Jason’s college graduation.   But, that’s not happening for various reasons.

So, here I am.

I don’t know why I place myself in such a self-distressed state year after year.  December, besides the usual weather aches and pains that occur with most winter seasons, has never caused me harm.  The world isn’t crazy, but the events and emotions I associate with it is.

I can’t blame the world or society.
The only fault is within the self which kind of adds to the fire.

There are enough things going on without me taking on additional strikes from the whip.  But yet, I do anyway.

This whole mental self-mutilation shouldn’t be.  But, unfortunately, that seems to be part of who I am – for better or ill.   Some people tattoo their eyeballs.   I self-lacerate.  Mentally, not physically.   My scars are enough for an outward sign.  Internally is where the true punishment lies.

Maybe I feel like I’m stuck.
I’m stuck between not knowing, regret, sorrow, guilt,  Not changing.   Not moving mentally, physically, or emotionally.   Maybe this time spurs my entire year and helps to define certain actions – which I’m not sure is a good thing.

Or, maybe, this is a reminder of who I am.   It grounds me.  Reminds me.

This is just a dream in reverse.