Sixty one

Yesterday, you would have turned 61, and I must admit I didn’t notice. I knew it was your birthday coming up, but days and dates fly by. The significance wanes. Life continues. We get busy.

It’s painful to think about you, but I’m uncertain if it’s because the wound is yet scarred these 20 years on, or I’m conditioned to feel woe at your notion or mention.

It’s more intense the last 2 years past, since donning the mantle of father myself. I can’t help but be reminded of your absence when I’m with my son. Your grandson. Your grandson that you’ll never know, but he’ll know you. That I’ll make sure. The good with the bad because I don’t romanticise you like some might. I believe in the full measure of a person.

My greatest fear is for some reason or other I won’t make it passed 40 to be there for my son. As your father died, age 40, you were age 9. You died, age 40 when I was age 9. This pattern haunts me. Math is on my side. When Ezekiel is age 9 I’ll still only be age 37. Nevertheless, it haunts me all the same.

I have lived the last 20 years without you. Much you have missed. School, college, university, career, marriage, child and all the things to come. I’ve done well without you, but the pain echoes through time and rends through my chest. Were this ink and paper, blotched, it would be. Alas, it is not, you’ll see no tears from me.