March is now for me an emotional month.
The 10th would be my grandma's birthday - she'd be 103. I still miss her, I can still see her face. Always smiling, never angry. Always appreciative of the small help I lent her in the garden or round the house. She always cooked a meal for me when I came to visit. I still remember my accident with her pressure cooker - spraying the ceiling with raspberry jam. That was the closest she came to being angry. She looked disapprovingly at the mess, though seemed more concerned that she'd have to make another batch. I repainted the ceiling of course. That was more than 20 years ago. I don't even have a photo of her.
The 11th, two years ago. I was renting a house in Manilva and came back from work to find our landlady and her husband in shock - I hadn't heard the news. They sat down with me and calmly, matter-of-factly told me about the bombs. Suddenly my memories of the UK came flooding back. An unexpected day off work. A walk in the park with the children, feeding the ducks with them. Coming home to turn on the TV and see the WTC in flames. That 11th of March two years ago overwhelmed me and I wept in front of this Spanish couple. I need to confront this demon.
Two years on and I still find it difficult. I try to concentrate on my eldest daugher's birthday which is this week. She'll be nine and has invited all her friends - we're expecting almost all her class, about 20 kids. She fills me with joy this happy, innocent child.