Chelsea.

Chelsea.

There has to be a period after her name. Because that is the end. She is dead. Breclyn can go on in this life. Chelsea can't. In England, they call that punctuation mark a "full stop". Ironic. Fitting. Almost comical in the drowning of today. Funny, like a life ring floating a few feet away from a sinking Charlie Chaplain. We laugh as he flails, because the music is funny, and it is black-and-white and not real. But today IS real. Full stop.

Each October after she died was torture. October 25 loomed over me from September until that fateful day arrived like a blast of cold wind.

The past few years have been less shocking. Less oppressive. Less ominous.

But I still miss her. And I still hate today.

This year, I hate today because it is ugly and dirty and miserable. I have made it disgusting and ruined it and made it filthy for another year, until maybe next year can cover the memories of today with a new October-25-The-Day-Chelsea-Died. I have a habit of doing this. Tainting days that can't be forgotten, and hoping next year will be better and will erase this year.

It is a biting cold, sunny autumn day. The leaves on the tree across the street are gone, and the trunk and branches stand stark against the blue sky. Everything feels like that today. Raw. And yet muted at the same time. I feel like climbing out of my own skin and living somewhere else for a while. The tree probably wants to be in Hawaii right now. But we both remain. Bare. And strong. The winds blow and strip us of our humanity, but we stand on.