It’s that time of year when the morning air is crisp, the surrounding hills are speckled yellow and orange, and the setting sun is vibrant pink and red.

It’s that time of year when my birthday cards arrive in the mail along with all the coupons for free treats.

It’s that time of year. The time when my mind wraps itself in a protective fog, my chest feels an extra weight, and my eyes seem to be welled up with tears ready to flow at any given moment.

It’s that time of year when I delete the Timehop app from my phone because I don’t need any extra reminders.

There’s never a time of year, a day that goes by, that I don’t remember him, that I don’t miss him, think of him, speak of him. Memories come up in the mundane, normal rhythms of my life, through songs on the radio, photos in my phone, driving past a familiar place, seeing a movie trailer I know he would have liked. Memories come at all the big moments, each holiday, each birthday, each dating, engagement, wedding anniversary.

All through the year I carry him with me, the joy of remembering the good times, the grief in the reality that he’s not here, and the mourning of all the relationships that have changed since. I never forget, I never will, I don’t want to forget.

None of that compares to when this time of year comes back around.

In July and August, my TimeHop is full of the highlight reel of the summer of 2021, the farewell tour we didn’t know we were on. Zoo trips, parties, dinners at friends, birthdays, that rodeo. Every year since he’s been gone, I see those summer memories and my body and mind prepare, like a bear preparing to hibernate. They have these unique adaptive strategies, like eating less and sleeping more, in order to survive a time of year where food is scarce and the weather is more than they can handle. July and August, my body and mind frantically prepare for the impending scarcity and storm.

August 27th is when it hits me. When my body goes into hibernation. It’s the day he woke up not feeling good. The day that we drove to a walk in clinic to check on what he may have. The day he actually tested negative for Covid. Then, there were all the days that followed. Those next four weeks felt like four years.

It’s this time of year that all the worst memories flood my mind. The soiled sheets, the finger pulse oximeter from Walgreens, his positive Covid test, my positive Covid test, the isolation, working from home with a three and six year old, rescheduling then canceling my big birthday celebration, loading up the van at 2 am and dropping him off, sitting in the parking lot waving up at a window, the last texts, the last phone call, the endless trips to and calls with the hospital, the fender bender I caused on my way to celebrate his last birthday.

It’s that time of year where each detail that has been etched into my memory forever is replayed like a movie. You know when you used to have a DVD on Home Screen and fall asleep, and it played relentlessly. But instead of the Shrek menu with Donkey jumping up saying “Pick me! Pick me!” it’s every call, every conversation, every agonizing moment. The back porch talk with a friend weeping, “I know God CAN but what if he doesn’t? Can I do this??” The prayer alone in the mini van, in a parking lot, tears streaming and palms facing up, only able to utter the name, “Jesus.” The drive thru at Dunkin when the call came through. The decisions. The last moments. The hard conversations telling and retelling everyone.

It’s that time of year when I have to plan another birthday for our daughter, knowing that this year her birthday parties without him outnumber the amount of parties he was there. This is the year I can hardly look at my nephew without crying, because he’s the exact age Neely was when I had to tell her the news, when I had to find her a new school because he was her day care, when I had to tuck her and her brother in by myself.

All of these memories are why this time of year where I can’t always finish my sentence. It’s that time of year where sleep becomes more elusive. It’s this time of year I’m thankful for a good God, for the friends and family who are here, for grace, for truth, for forgiveness, for the peace of knowing where he is, and for my counselor and EMDR. All of that is good, it gets me through the rest of the year, the hard work of healing makes the pain more endurable, especially during this is the time of year when I am forced to remember the bad with the good. I limp through September with grief while dancing with joy at the same time. My body, my mind, they remember everything this time of year.