April 9th, 2008

It's your birthday, bro.

I don't know why I can remember that so easily: I am so bad with birthdays that I even forget my own. But I can always remember your birthday- it's locked in my head like a PIN code. But I cannot, for the life of me, remember the date that you died. Isn't that weird? I find that weird.

I'll be calling mom in a few minutes. It's something I do every day on this date. I play it off, of course: 'Hi mom, just calling to see what's new...'. She plays along, but we both know. I never talk to dad on these calls. He's never around- always indisposed. I always envision him in the shop, working on something. Or, lately, helping grandma around her house. She's 88, you know. Starting to slow down, feel her mortality. And either he's working and thinking of you, or working and trying very hard to NOT think about you. But either way, there's no doubt you're on his mind. But no, I've never talked to him on this date. He's always out. Unavailable. I don't blame him, and don't know what I'd say to him if I did get him on the phone. I think we'd both feel like we had a leaden ball in our bellies; our conversation would be short.

Thanks for this. I really enjoy it. I've enjoyed it every year for the last 14 years. Sort of a sick gift that keeps on giving. A bad Hallmark card.

Sorry. That was uncalled for. But the anger never really goes away, you know? It just... starts to lose its focus.

You would be 39 today, old man.

Happy birthday.