I cry a lot. At pop culture. The right book, movie, TV show, song and even award show acceptance speech will set me off in tears.
I don't cry a lot in real life. I make a joke. I roll my eyes. I take deep breaths and count to 10 or 75.
It's weird. I know. The last time I cried in public it was a gut wrenching sob that I never thought I'd be able to stop. I still don't know how I stopped. Sometimes I don't think I ever really did. It's just sobbing on the inside.
Every year this date rolls around and I kind of dwell on it in my head. Is the sense of loss more overwhelming on the anniversary of the day it happened? Does attaching a number, like 15 this year, make it more resonant? No. But the mind can't stop doing that. We're wired to commemorate things on a five count.
But it doesn't matter the year. The month. The time of day. It's there. Dwelling in my heart, my brain, an ache in my bones at times.
At friend's weddings I see them dance with their father. I see pictures of my friends' kids with their grandparents. I play with my nephew and think about how much he'd have loved his Pops. I close my eyes and see his glasses. It's constant.
So tomorrow will be 15 years since I lost my Pops. The man who with Mems raised me to be mouthy, spoiled and loved.
No matter how many years pass, I wake up every day thinking about him. Sometimes I laugh. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I eat vanilla wafers and peanut butter and curl into a fetal position.
But then I let it pass. I get up and keep moving.