As the sun fell behind me, the distant mountainous peaks in the west painted the sky a brave orange that cast my shadow against a storage unit that I used to pass with every entrance and goodbye from my previous place of employment. I watched my shadow as I reached into my pocket for my phone. I snapped a picture of my dark figure to record the moment. It’s an image that I seldom visit, one I skip in the camera roll, one stamped like a watermark on my noggin.
Because of what month this occurred in, I had a feeling that I was leaving work for the last time. I feared that this was the premature death to a career that I loved. My boss simply said, “Don’t come in tomorrow,” as the city was hitting the breaks on practically all public activities. The date was March 19, 2020. Eight days later, I received a phone call from my mother, telling me that her mother passed away. I was no longer a grandchild. Endings seemed to descend on my life during this period.
March is a curious month for my family. Seemingly, everyone moves on during the 31-day stretch, within a specific ten days. As chance, coincidence, or fate would have it, March 22 marks the day when I lost my dad’s father in 1999. Five years later, minus two days, we lost his wife. Ten years later, on March 22, I lost a deeply loved best friend, my dog Scout — who grew up with…
