March 9th, 2011 marked the calendar. A calendar he just seemed to stare at for a while, thinking about how much she loved spring. 8:47 a.m. also marked the time. She’d already be out and about, twirling around on their grassy front porch or greeting the plants they grew together. Then she would put a hot pocket in the microwave but forget it was in there even after the beeping. By the time he woke up, it would be cold, but she would just heat it up again. And about a year from then, they would get married.

Jean-Claude DiSanto, will you take the bride as your loving wife?

He’d say I do.

Melanie Luu, will you take the groom as your loving husband?

Then she’d say I do.

Then they’d grow old together and die in each other’s arms…

But Jean-Claude shouted: “Bullshit!”

He stood there, the ripped calendar page crumpled up in his hand. Tears formed in his pitiful tired eyes. She wouldn’t want me to cry like this, he thought. She’d tell me it’s okay. She’d hold me close in her arms and tell me it’s okay. It’s okay to be sad. He grabbed the calendar and violently threw it to the tiled floor. It’s okay to be angry. He fell to the ground and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed so much he could barely breathe. It’s okay to mourn. Just know I’ll always be there - - “Shut up! Shut up!” He pounded his fists on the wall to the point they bled. He saw her face in the blood and fell back, somehow sobbing even more violently than before. And then he calmed down after half an hour and got up and went back to bed.