Ever since her death eight years ago, my mother’s birthdays are easiest on me on that very day. December the third. Starting the next day, they slowly ebb away.

Addendum (December 5, 2016)

As it turns out, little if anything has changed since this haiku was penned seven years ago. My mother’s birthdays come and go in predictable ways. And so do my father’s, I hasten to add. To this day, December the third and May the second are special days in my life. Very special. Ahead of them, discomfort slowly builds, and it ebbs away a bit more quickly following them. After so many years, though, I cannot but wonder whether this pattern will ever change. Chances are that it never will. In fact, chances are that the discomfort will only grow in the years to come, for the paradox of my parents’ life after death is at its core. Ever since their death fifteen years ago, they are ever more alive in my mind. By now, it is pretty hard to tell them apart from myself.