I’ve written that October for me spells sadness. October is sadness, just as September is sunshine, just as April is madness and jest.
This is the death month of my stepmother.
Every year, I write about October and about her being dead as ever, since 2000.
The movie version of Harry Potter portrayed Luna Lovegood as being able to see thestrals that are only seen by those who have seen death (my reference is the movie, not the book; I am not a Harry Potter book whiz). When I saw this bit, I teared up and instantly liked Luna Lovegood. Incidentally, Luna is the maiden surname of my maternal grandmother whom I adored fiercely.
I am able to see thestrals since I saw my stepmom die. I am able to see other things because of her death like seeing her smile on a stranger’s face or sensing her touch a fraction of a second from the merest physical contact. I was by her side when she died. I was the one who brought the news to people. This is the first time I admitted that here, to you. Every year, there is no salve that can cover the wound. The wound just dries up a bit, forms a scab, but beneath a hole gapes.
This year, I offer the songs Winter Never Comes by Paper Aeroplanes and Dream a Little Dream of Me by Ozzie Nelson. This has been my ritual since 2000: to offer songs to her on her death anniversary. People say the last sense to die is the sense of hearing. I’d like to think she can still hear me. I’d like to think songs can still reach her.