Birthdays After Death

January is the time of rebirth — the month of novelty. My January has undertones of these feelings of newness, but they are always overwhelmed by the presence of my father and his legacy. He was never one to be particularly fond of holidays, except maybe Thanksgiving (contingent on the fact that there was sweet potato casserole with marshmallows). He felt like the holidays were often used as an excuse to show love to people who you should be expressing gratitude for 365 days a year. He would always tell me, “I don’t need a specific day to tell me when I should I love you.”

 I say this now as I enter January of 2020 because my dad may not have loved holidays, but he always found joy on his birthday, and his birthday month was January. As adults get older, there seems to be specific rhetoric around age and youth. It is common to dread turning 40 and consequently 50 and 60. However, to me, my dad always seemed to be genuinely excited to turn another year. Now that he has passed, I can’t help but feel nostalgic and sentimental during this month that would celebrate another year he was earthside. He is gone, and in his wake is the absence of genuine joy he felt about the future’s possibility.  

I am filled with grief and I ache thinking about the fact that I will never see the way his face changes with age. I will never see if his eyes keep the blue circle that surrounds his pupil in his otherwise brown irises. I will never see him blow out forests of candles in chocolate and coconut frosting. His physical self is gone. 

I am learning that grief does not have an end date as I was once told. There is no time that will heal the place in my heart where my father once stood. It is a wound that will not heal with time, only change shape. On most days, the shape of grief becomes one that I can fit in my pocket or my backpack — ever-present but manageable. It does not inhibit me from the daily routines of life. However, there will always be days where the shape of grief takes on the form of a cinder block. It is heavy on my chest and it threatens to shatter my heart again. 

 I will spend the rest of my life managing the rollercoaster of loss. I think about him on these cold January nights, and I cannot deny I am filled with a sadness that I struggle to articulate in any sort of concise way. Part of me thinks it’s a sadness of what could have been, but maybe it’s a sadness for what has been and will never be again. I don’t think I’ll ever have an answer. However, life continues, and this alone is my greatest motivator and my biggest heartache. 

republished from my previous blog posted on 01.09.20