Almost here. That's both it, another anniversary, and me. For me, that's about this place. The place I miss and want to inhabit again. The intensity varies through time, from burning to simmering, but it's always there. Always, despite the months and months of terrible neglect. I see the weeds all around, and I don't expect anyone to still be wondering by, looking for me. So I know it's not about the audience. It's about me. I still want to be here, still need to be here.
A few months ago now (ouch, already?), I told a couple of bloggers I met for the first time that night (hi, gals, if any of you still have this place in the reader) that my first post back would be a "how do you know you are still a blogger?" and would essentially boil down to "if you are constantly composing posts in your head, you're it." And I am. So I guess I am.
Last calendar year deserves a post all its own, and it will probably get one, sometime next week. This past month, January. Well, it should've gotten a small stable of posts, but except for the one I had on Glow earlier, this is it so far.
But what's there to say, this fourth time around? I miss him. Still, always. In some ways that are now familiar, and in some ways that are new and sharper for it. Thoughtless things people say can still get me. Sometimes in a new way. The one that happened earlier in the fall, but then crept back into my head and heart to mess with both earlier this month, was about how insignificant A is to others. It hurts, and it hurts worse for the casual manner in which she did it. And yet, as with other things, once I dissected that enough to understand what in it was so hurtful, it receded. These things always do. The one that doesn't is the simplest and the most basic of them all-- he is not here. He will never be here.
Four years ago I was still just a pregnant woman.