The hours leading up to the anniversary of the death of a loved one really begins to take on a Stations of the Cross-type feel:

“This is when my mom called…”

“This was when the insensitive surgeon came in…”

“This was the last time I heard my father’s voice…”

“This is when I decided that praying for restored health was futile…”

“This is when the nurse urged us to stand by his side…”

“This is when they stopped chest compressions…”

“This is the feel of lifeless skin…”

“This is me, a fatherless son…”

(From a series of Tweets I did coming up on the first anniversary of my father’s death.)