I listened to the man speaking of how he worried that his dying grandmother might leave this life on his birthday. I understood why he felt that way because deaths on meaningful dates are rarely forgotten. Year after year those occasions become painful reminders of loss. It is difficult enough when someone dies on a random day but when that moment comes on or near a time that will forevermore be a trigger of remembrance, it is somehow doubly bad. 

I was once celebrating with a group of teachers at Christmas time. The food and the company were both great and we were chatting gleefully when one of our colleagues suddenly burst into tears and rushed away from the table. I left to look for her and found her outside sobbing uncontrollably. I worried that she was having some kind of medical scare but when I inquired she simply shook her head while attempting unsuccessfully to halt her tears. I stood near her not knowing what to do. I feared that if I suddenly attempted to hug her she might push me away. I decided to just take her hand and give her the time she needed to recover. 

Once her tears had stopped she told me that one of the carols playing in the background inside the restaurant had been her mother’s favorite. She recalled how her mother would stop whatever she was doing just to hear the tune. Her mom would smile and close her eyes with unadulterated pleasure and then proclaim that it finally felt like Christmas. Sadly my friend’s mom had died on Christmas Eve a few years back. Her death had been a shock to everyone. She had a stroke and was gone before an ambulance reached the location where the family was celebrating with Christmas music playing from the family stereo. Just before she collapsed she had once again been happily enjoying her favorite song with her eyes shut and an angelic grin on her face as her favorite carol boomed across the room. 

My friends explained that every Christmas time since that tragic moment she had been unable to hear the song that her mother had so enjoyed. It was an emotional reminder of the tragedy that would forever be associated in her mind with Christmas. In spite of a decade having passed since her mother’s death, the song was like a pushing a button that brought back memories that never seemed to fade in her mind. 

I totally understood her feelings. I have experienced the same kind of traumatic flashback every May 31 since my father died. At one time the Memorial Holiday was set for that exact date, revolving around the seven days of the week in a recurring pattern. Eventually the date was instead celebrated on the last Monday of May rather than changing from year to year 

On May 30, 1957, my mother had spent most of the day preparing food for the family celebration that was scheduled to take place at the beach the following day. I boasted to my friends in the neighborhood that it would be an adventure with my aunts and uncles and cousins. I looked forward to swimming and people watching. Mama had made her “famous” chocolate cake and baked beans that were legendary. Daddy was going to cook hamburgers and slather the patties with my mom’s yummy homemade barbecue sauce. Her potato salad was cooling in the refrigerator and my mouth was already watering with anticipation. 

Mama shooed me and my brothers to bed early on May 30. She told us to sleep well so that we might have breakfast, get dressed and leave before nine the next morning. It was our turn to secure a good spot on the beach for the whole extended family. With visions of what the morrow would bring I shuffled off to my bedroom without complaint. 

It took a bit of time for me to fall asleep but when I finally did I dreamed of the fun that lay ahead. I liked those outings to the beach with my family more than anything about summer except perhaps the vacations that Daddy planned each year. I already knew how wonderful Memorial Day would be. Somehow at that stage of my life I did not yet realize that it was actually a holiday to remember our fallen soldiers. I just thought it was the send off for a great summer.

I awoke early on May 31, just as the sun was rising. I was so anxious to get the ball rolling that I was ready to jump up and run to the kitchen but I heard something that sounded strange. I decided to stay in bed while I listened to my mother talking with someone on the phone. Her voice did not sound right and she seemed to be talking about a person using the past tense. I could not imagine who might be the subject of her comment nor why she was having such a conversation in the early morning hours. Before long I had put the pieces of her puzzling sentences together. I believed that she was speaking about my father, but why?

My stomach was growling enough that I lost interest in sleuthing and headed for the kitchen to prepare a bowl of cereal. I was shocked to see one of my aunts there looking nervous and distracted. She asked me if I wanted to eat and I responded that a bowl of cereal would be fine. her demeanor was anxious and I too began to feel that something was very wrong with the scenario playing out in my house. I wondered again why my mother was on the phone telling someone about my father as though he was a memory, not the man sleeping down the hall in his bedroom. 

I suppose that my aunt suddenly realized that I was looking puzzled because she came over to the table and sat in the chair closest to me. In that moment she almost blurted out that “God had called my father.” I played dumb even though I knew what she meant. Nonetheless, I did not believe my ears. My aunt had to tell me with very clear words that my father had died in a car wreck in the early morning hours of May 31. 

I don’t recall much that happened after I got the shocking news. My aunts and uncles and cousins came to our home. The Memorial Day festivities became a day of mourning and grief and have been so for me every year since then which is probably more in keeping with the original intent of the day. Each year the last day of May takes me back to that kitchen and to the horror of losing my father. 

I’d like to say that maturity has helped me to move on from the emotions that swept over my being back then, but in truth I am much like my friend whenever she heard that song that was playing when her mother died. May 31 sends me plummeting down over and over again. In fact, my sorrow on that day seems to only grow as time goes by. I even find myself having silly thoughts like wondering why my father-in-law got to live well into his nineties while my father was only on this earth for thirty three years. It’s a silly and senseless way to be, but I suppose that emotions find strange spaces to hide. There will never be a time when I forget.