I didn’t write yesterday. And I felt bad about it. But I had been wallowing down in the sadness pretty much all day and just couldn’t bring myself to do it. At one point, I had said to myself that writing every day would be one way to keep Hudson close, to keep my connection to her strong. I am realizing as the days go on that she is always right here with me. I don’t have to write every day to make that happen. And to expect myself to just opens the door to more guilt that I can’t handle on days when I just can’t find it in myself to write.
Yesterday, I began to realize why fall is hitting me so hard. We’ve lived an entire season without Hudson. This week and next, my three guilty pleasure shows are airing their premieres (the fourth, Grey’s Anatomy, is one I will never be able to watch again). Their finales aired in the spring the same week Hudson died. A whole season has passed. A new season is starting. And she is not here.
And I realized that one of the reasons I’ve always loved fall is because it is prologue to the holidays. As the air turns cool and crisp, thoughts of pumpkins, stuffing, and yes, even Christmas trees, begin to take shape. I’ve never been a huge Halloween fanatic, but last year I got a sense for the first time of how much fun it could be, how much fun it would be, with Hudson. This year, I will have to sit by and watch as all her little friends dress up in their costumes, go to parties and pumpkin patches and hayrides, maybe trick-or-treat for the first time. And I will have to think about how much she is missing. How much we are missing. It is just so wrong.
And for as long as I can remember, Thanksgiving and Christmas have been my favorite times of year—they are my seasons of love. Last year, I had the best Thanksgiving and Christmas of my entire life, celebrating Hudson’s birthday in between and introducing my favorite holiday traditions to my sweet girl and looking forward to so many more as she got older. This year will be the worst Thanksgiving and Christmas of my entire life, even worse than 2002, the year I spent those holidays helping my mother die peacefully. This year I will have to pass my favorite holidays without my child. I will have to celebrate her birthday without her. I will have to watch her cousins open their presents when my girl never will again. For someone who loves the holidays as much as I do, it is awful to dread them instead of look forward to them.
It is incredibly difficult to be a passionate person and yet not care about a goddamned thing. The seasons change, days march forward, new jobs begin, and none of it matters at all. No matter how much I want to care, I just don’t.