Through sleepy eyes I wander to the light coming from the kitchen. I creep ever so quietly, carefully navigating the living room. I step lightly on the carpet to keep from being heard. I can hear the muffled sounds of classic country on his old radio. The smell of his morning coffee fills the house. The sun is just starting to peek through the sky, but he has been up for awhile. He gets up early all week for his job, but it doesn't matter he loves the morning time. Today is Sunday and he could easily take his much earned rest but he won't, it's not in his nature. My footsie pajamas scrape on the kitchen tile and give me away. His paper shuffles and he pretends not to have heard. I try to sneak all the way up to him, but I can't control the urge to giggle. He lowers the paper and a big grin appears. He schooches out the chair next to him and pats the chair. I climb up and settle in. He carefully separates the funnies from the paper and hands me "my newspaper". He goes back to reading his sport section. My legs swing back and forth as I laugh at Garfield. I can hear the Judds playing "grandpa tell us about the good ol days" in the background. The noisy kitchen clock ticks loudly and I rub my eyes. My tummy rumbles and in the quiet kitchen, he chuckles. His little man is hungry and he folds his paper up. I watch him get up with greedy eyes. Sunday breakfast is special. The work in the garage starts later and this is our time. He starts the bacon and the sizzling smoky smell makes me hungrier. It seems like an eternity waiting for it to cook. The eggs are next and we like them scrambled. The toast is my job and I almost forgot. The smell of breakfast had me distracted. I got them popped down and am off the get the juice. The jug is a little heavy and it wobbles. I spill some, but he just smiles. He grabs a rag and cleans up after his little man. Breakfast is almost done. The toast is buttered and the plates are set. We set the table for three. My brother is asleep still and we should go wake him. We should, but today we don't. It's my birthday and he wants to enjoy the alone time with his little man. Hot Wheels and G.I. Joe's are on my birthday list, but nothing compares to this. Mornings are our time and nothing beats this moment.
Thirty some odd years later, I am a grown man. Inside, I am still that little boy. It is once again my birthday but dad is no longer here. I wait for our special birthday call. It never comes. Logically, I knew it would never come. That doesn't stop me from waiting and hoping. The little boy inside misses him so much and I hurt. He wasn't just my dad, he was one of my best friends. We talked through life's problems, both his and mine. I feel abandoned. I wasn't ready to let him go. I find myself navigating fatherhood and I wonder if I am making the memories that my boys will cherish. Will they think back thirty years from now and be moved by something as simple as a memory? Have I been the father I should be? He made me feel special and I hope that I have done the same for my boys. Oddly enough, I hope that they someday experience this pain I feel. If they do, I guess I have done my job.
Dad, your birthday is almost here and you would have been 63. You left us way too early. It has been seven years now and I still fight the urge to call you. The call that you were gone still echoes in my head. My heart broke all within a heartbeat. Time was supposed to ease the pain. It didn't. Is it possible to remove the pain and still keep the memories? I am not sure. I doubt it. If that is the case, then I hope it never goes away.
Dad, your birthday is almost here and you would have been 63. You left us way too early. It has been seven years now and I still fight the urge to call you. The call that you were gone still echoes in my head. My heart broke all within a heartbeat. Time was supposed to ease the pain. It didn't. Is it possible to remove the pain and still keep the memories? I am not sure. I doubt it. If that is the case, then I hope it never goes away.
