My father would have been 76 today, except that he died two years and one day ago. Being from Philadelphia, silly as it is, I would have celebrated his 76th as an extra-special birthday.
Mourning and grief are reasonable. Mourning and grief are irrational. I make decisions to feel and behave a certain way, but I still find tears in my eyes during Johnny Cash songs in the car. We would sing along to a Greatest Hits cassette in the kitchen when I was a kid. Why didn’t I ever accept his invitations to go to Chi-Chi’s for karaoke?
The word “adrift” best sums up the feeling bubbling and darting behind my busy thoughts this week. “Mopey” and “self-reflective” sum up my recent state.
But I go on.
My dad with my siblings and 5-year-old me, smiling on the right.
(Another family picture here.)
