Q

Every year is a year lost, and the years we had were so much yet never enough.

This time of the year, I think of you more often that I do usually.

Your birthday, set as Reccuring Forever, remains on my calendar.

It is your birthday today.

Someone told me once you are not meant to celebrate the birthday of the dead. For each year there is no turning of the age; a reminder of the recurrence set with casual certainty that they will come, but didn’t.

But I wish to celebrate your birthday in my privacy. I celebrate that day years before I was born, when you were. For you were here, and for that many happy decades you were ours. The time I had with you was perhaps brief in comparison. Yet it was my entire lifetime, at some point. My childhood and my coming-of-age. And through the winds and tides, I see your face in the sail. Sturdy and always towards me.

That one time at the Japanese restaurant, you bid me eat more. Your concern mellow but consistent. Your voice over the phone, a quiet laugh to diffuse my childish doubts. At my shows. When I first moved out. At your home, a difficult day, the last few, when you apologised when you were the last person who should. I should, we should, the world should. Yet you did.

An thank you seemed too thin. You were more than a courtesy.

Your grip on my fingers, just before the page stopped turning. How much effort must it have taken you? That you suffered but tried so hard for us is always what rises that terrible stone to my chest.

But today, today, I celebrate your birthday. I celebrate every year you were around. For the joy you had and gave and shared. With the rest of my life I celebrate yours.