Happy Birthday

Half a year, Daddy. I've been writing to myself for half a year. I know this is how it will continue. I will blink my eyes and then I'll be saying 'one year. I can't believe I made it through one year.' I will go to sleep and when I wake up I'll be saying, 'five years. I've been without my Daddy for five years.' I'll take my babies to their ballet recital and when I take their picture I'll say, 'ten years- and how he loved to watch you dance. Then, inevitably, I'll watch them walk down the isle and I'll think, '20 years. And how your Papa would have loved to have been here.' And here we are- your 59th birthday.

I told you before you left that I would celebrate your birthday with the girls every year so that we could remember you the way you would want us to. You liked the idea. In my head, I had envisioned a more grand celebration- and one during which I didn't make the girls uncomfortable with my constant crying. I guess I'm just not there yet. I look at their little faces and listen to their stories about the zoo, mexican food, liver and onions, bing bong, shoulder rides and Yellow Submarine and I'm so sad that you're not here- that their memories will fade and the smiling face in the pictures with them will be nothing more than a mystery- a fairy book man from Mommy's stories. That's the reality- I know it is. You knew it was too, and I think that was what made you the most sad. I will try to keep you alive, but you are slipping away, even out of my grasp and I am holding on SO tightly.

Some days it still feels as if you've just been on a trip and I'll see you again. Just last week the phone rang in the evening and the fleeting thought came, "that must be Daddy. I haven't talked to him in a while and he's going to say 'you don't love me anymore!' Then I almost laughed because I couldn't believe that I'd forgotten that you're gone. Then some days your absence is so painful that it chokes me- takes the air from my lungs. Like today. It's hard to breathe when I look at pictures of you.

I feel blessed that I have no regrets when I see your smiling face. I think I held on to every moment with you as much as I could. I even knew the pain that was coming before you left. Yet I still can't breathe when I see your face. You come see me in my dreams. Usually you are still gone, but I can see you. You walk with me, you protect me. Last week, though, you were sick and I knew you would be leaving soon. I touched your cheek and felt it's roughness. I held your hand and felt the tough skin. I hugged you and smelled your Daddy aftershave. I said, "nobody will love me like you do, Daddy." And then I woke up. And I was right. And I will always be right. And that is why I can't breathe- because I am less loved than I was when you walked on this earth with me. Yet I am so happy because of the love you left with me. I am so proud of the strength that you taught me. I am so grateful for the joy you instilled in me.

I don't know why God didn't give you 20 more birthdays, Daddy, but I know He is merciful and holds your hand as you walk the streets of gold today. And I pray he'll continue to hold my hand as I learn to walk these streets without a Daddy to hold my hand. Stay in my heart, Daddy. Help me hold on. Happiest of birthdays to the man who gave me life and taught me how to live.