Looking back, briefly.

Yesterday, when I looked at my calendar to count the weeks backwards, I was struck by how it seemed that my life, our life, had continued since January 9th as if nothing had happened. So many days were full: French studies; just-for-the-fun-of-it university classes; snowshoeing excursions; dinner parties; lunches and museum trips with my fellow, shall we say, Swiss housewives; after-work drinks with those lucky enough to be able to divide their days suchly.

Life just kept happening, and, although it seems to me that I could not have been, that I was instead under the covers curled around the hole inside me and a box of tissues, I was indeed there to have it happen to me. I got through all of these events (some by the skin of my teeth), and even superficially enjoyed most of them, and perhaps nobody even knew anything was wrong.

My recollection of the last almost-two months as a time of complete and utter wretchedness isn’t completely accurate, then. These penciled-in reminders exist as proof of moments treasured with friends and family, memories made, little spots of pleasure, if not happiness, against the background of loss.

Forward, forward.