January is always a hard month for me. Each year I think it might go by without remembering. But it never fails. Something always reminds me of the day that Amy died. Like today, the snow and the bitter cold. Oh, how I wish I could forget.
It especially stings when the anniversary of her death creeps up on me. I think to myself, “No, there is no way it has been seven years since I’ve talked to her or seen her face. It just can’t be. She can’t be gone.”