Not quite a year is somehow and illogically easier to stomach than a year ago. There’s something about 365 days in passing that feels like finality, feels like no turning back. By 90 days, there are still tears. Sometimes there’s still irrational anger and resentments. With 150 days comes determination, closure. By 300 days, all which remains is a lingering confusion, an uncomfortable number association. After 360 days, after not quite a year, a looming nostalgia – somewhat numb yet still aware – sits delicately in the pit of the stomach. Then, there’s something about the 365th day where a replay of the past film-scrolls through the memory along with the realization of the date. It highlights the best and worst parts, all the smiles and raised voices, all the hopes, poetry, nicknames, text messages. Sometimes there’s a distance or detachment to the memories like looking through a dusty camera lens or rainy window. Sometimes there’s a dissociation which follows the recognition of no longer being the same person as a year ago, with the acknowledgement of knowing now what you didn’t know then. Maybe by then it’s just a vague summary, a passing sigh, a worn-out page of a well-read book, an almost imperceptible emotional nagging. But you remember. You still remember.