Grief Journey Day + 197

Today is your birthday. You would have turned 64. We would have had Two-Hearted Ale or Voodoo Rangers and German chocolate cake, your favorite. We may have hiked since it was sunny but the wind blew wicked hard, so perhaps not. I would have told you that I love you and that you were the best thing that ever happened to me.

Our kids all called me today. They are hurting and missing you so much. I miss your smile. Your laugh.

I miss hanging onto you on the back of your motorcycle, leaning my head on your back sometimes, feeling your strength, feeling scared and safe at the same time. The smell of leather and gasoline. Your mustache on my lip when we kissed.

I miss watching you swim, so comfortable in the water, so sure. Watching you slalom ski, cutting across the wake and driving up walls of strung diamonds. You always sat on the engine afterwards, catching your breath. Then the switch to the pontoon boat, where we would drink a cocktail and watch the sunset.

I miss your restlessness, your kindness, the way you drew all animals to yourself, especially dogs, and the way you whispered to them while their tails swung. I miss our long conversations about politics, our future, our family, our jobs, and about silly things like ducks and childhood and inside jokes.

I don’t know what to do with your clothes or your ashes. I hated feeling your hands when they were cold. I hated it after you drew your last breath and another didn’t come. I want you here, warm and real and strong and alive. I want. I want. But I can live here without you because I must. All that you showed me, I was watching. I saw your strength and determination. You never quit. I will learn from how you lived so I can live, too.

Happy birthday, baby. I love you.