Anniversary

Such a strange word, with its ring of celebration, for something like this. But there seems to be no other. November now, and darkness bears down earlier each day with a physical weight. For weddings, the first anniversary is paper. I have filled pages with words, but what good has it done? For suicides, the first year is lead. But when the day finally comes, it isn't as bad as the weeks leading up to it. We set an extra place at dinner and light a candle to bring my brother's absence near. And then we talk about him. Words are all we have to bring back the time he taught a parrot, in someone's house in France, to say, "I farted," or how he renamed Prince and Shine, our uncle's yapping black toy poodles, Shit and Shinola. We're laughing now. Someone looking in from the darkness outside might think we're celebrating.