When my family died I was glad for the timing, because the days that followed became consistently warmer and sunnier. I considered it a blessing that my season of absolute loss was followed by the season of rebirth. I've since, on occasion, wondered if I would have survived the same circumstances had they been followed by the death and cold of winter. My spirit had rejuvenated with spring - I wonder if it would have withered with the fall.
The seasonal cycles worked to my benefit two years ago. They work against me now. My winters are such:
Early December: a trauma I experienced with a dear friend. Late December: I go home for the winter holiday and see my parents and brother for what would be the last time. Early January: My father drives me back to my residence, and gives me a long and loving farewell - what I later realize was him saying goodbye. Mid January: I speak with my mother on the phone for the last time. Homicide detectives come to my residence to deliver the news. They return two days later to question me. We hold the funeral. February: My father and I shared a birthday. For the first time, I commemorate a birthday alone.
This hellish sequence of events spanned the coldest, harshest months of the year. When I was in complete darkness, and the light of spring peeked over the horizon, it was a beacon of hope to me. But now, the approach of the 'anniversaries' is congruent with the approach of short, winter days and biting, cold air. People are driven indoors to keep warm, and society enters a hibernation that is in sharp contrast with the liveliness of summer.
For me: the season pushes me into my own cage of grief. My friends and acquaintances prefer not to stray from the hearth, and the weather disheartens me from seeking them out myself. People rush homeward to warm themselves by the heat of their families' love, reminding me of how the hot blaze of my large family became the warm embers of my small one.
When Christmas passes, and the winter gets harsher, the anniversary of their death strikes - shortly followed by exams. The idea that spring is nearer each day is lost to me. Instead, the inherent sorrow of the season magnifies my own sorrow.
My seasonal cycle is pathetic fallacy.