Three years have past; Three summers, with the length of three long winters! and again I recall my mother, lying in her deathbed with a soft late-season snow beginning to fall outside.

Mary Jo and I were talking last night about my moods and she said, “you know what, I bet the season of your mother’s death has something to do with this. Didn’t she die around this time?”

I lay in bed, picturing her gravestone I had just examined today on a trip to my hometown, and although it didn’t register at the time, yes, she died on March 12th, three years ago today, in the deepening dusk as an the first taps on the window signaled the beginning of an unseasonably late snowstorm. The room was filled with family and friends, my sister on her right side and me on her left. I wrote about this moment in December in a reflection on her hands and my hands, but I have not thought about it since.

I don’t know how this date could have escaped me, but it did. It’s not that I haven’t thought of my mother or my father, who died two years before her — in fact, I was thinking that the current president of my PFLAG chapter reminds me a great deal of my mother, and I was imagining that she would have supported me in this transsexual transition.

I don’t know if my mood swings have anything to do with family grief, but I’m willing to entertain the possibility that they contribute to my ups and downs. Still, I think they have mostly to do with how hard it is to tweak all my social relationships, all my personality characteristics, and all of my preconceived notions of how life was supposed to work out. If those don’t occasion grief (at least from time to time), I don’t know what would be considered legitimate. I continue to turn my eye made quiet by the power of harmony to self-understanding, aiming for the deep power of joy and the hope that I may see into the life of things.