I always struggled with your birthday—so close to Father’s Day—and trying to find you, the man who had everything, a gift. What on earth could I possibly give you? What would go with that smile, could go with that look on your face—the one where you throw your head back in a fit of laughter, then wipe away your tears because you’ve been laughing so hard?
Nothing. No earthly thing could measure up—no amount of perfect shopping would ever evoke that response. No button down shirt or gadget would compare to the gift you gave—joy and love for LIFE and all its offerings.
I know it probably goes without saying, but I miss you. I miss your big hugs where I almost couldn’t breathe you were squeezing me so tight. I miss your phone calls reminding me that it had been a little too long since you’d heard from me. I miss your stories—shit I miss your stories. I never grew tired of them; I feel like I only heard a small sliver slice of the treasure trove that would have been shared eventually, across Easter eggs benedicts and Des’s thanksgiving dressing.
I miss you more than tears and jumbled up half baked words can express. Its not poetic. Its not all wrapped up. Its rather a mess actually, but its what I have—its all I have. I wish you were here so I could tell you—just one more time—but hindsight is always 20/20 and if you were here, tomorrow would be another beautiful day, sun shining and flowers bursting and the 10 am phone call from me and sweetie.
Happy birthday dad. I love you.