Dates

Dates are funny. As the years go by they seem to matter less and less; the buildup to the day in question goes from a burden to a shrug, until the reminder of what the date actually signifies comes hurtling back at astronomical speed.

I was fine, until I wasn’t. That’s the tricky thing about grief: it never fully goes away. It leaves a scar, and that scar has the power of speech. Mine whispered to me this morning in a soft familiar voice, reminding me that it would be my Dad’s 74th birthday tomorrow. I’d mostly forgotten; that date doesn’t get circled on the calendar anymore, there’s no red among the sea of black and white, nothing to capture my attention.

I forgot last year, too, and I wondered what that said about me. I still don’t have an answer. The part of me devoted to self-care and self-love says it means I’ve healed. The rest of me, though…I don’t know. I don’t taste sour guilt or bitter anger, or the salt of tears. Instead there’s something wistful…the eggs he put in tuna sandwiches, a bite of his favorite chocolate ice cream. Candied beets, with their gorgeous burgundy sheen and horrible smell, the comfort in knowing he always ordered the same thing and the slight swell of pride at seeing myself do it too.

I wish I had a pretty conclusion to draw, but I don’t. I have the life I’ve built in the four years since he died, a heavy heart I’ve gotten better at carrying, and his same little half-smile that always promised mischief.

Happy Birthday, Dad. I love you.