I feel sad and I miss my old man. It bugs me that I don't remember much of his own birthdays; I remember the vanilla/vanilla cupcakes, and him opening presents and saying gracelessly and honestly, "This isn't what I wanted." I remember Sharon's 40th birthday had a big crazy ping-pong party, and I remember making a movie called "Bearing 40" for my Uncle Bear, but I don't remember Greg's 40th. I don't remember how we celebrated his 50th either. I don't remember his stories about birthdays when he was a little kid, or the early years with Sharon before there were kids of his own. I remember the Godfather party only because there are photos (there's a photo taped above my bar). It's embarrassing to admit that I don't remember; I feel guilty. I wish I'd written more shit DOWN while my dad was alive to tell me about it. Then again, if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.
Of course the 55th birthday was when he was sick, but we all thought he was getting better and he pigged out on a Pink's chili dog, which only furthered the idea that he was on the mend. That birthday was also when I got my first teaching job, which I truly believe now was a saving grace from somewhere above to keep me safe and sane and grateful to be alive.
Today at summer school, a 4yr old told me, "Tomorrow's my birthday!" and without thinking I replied, 'Tomorrow's my dad's birthday too!"
In the smallest wistful voice she said, "I really wish he could come. I wish your dad could come here for our birthday." I said, "I wish he could come too," and turned my face away. Of course, she meant Room 1 and I meant Earth, but the tone was the same. Longing, imagining, wishing...
Happy birthday, Greg. I love you and I miss you...
