the day before

Tomorrow is Dad's birthday. I wonder, sometimes, if that is the appropriate thing to say. From time to time, I have said that February 18th would have been his birthday, but if you want to know the truth (and I do), it will always be his birthday to me. I digress...

For as long as I can remember, I have written something to Dad for his birthday: notes, cards, sometimes long, newsy letters. That winter he died is the only time I didn't, and it didn't feel right at all. Of course, what I was doing instead, what the six of us were doing, was chucking huge chunks of frozen snow at the ground, trying to clear the driveway. We threw them, and I screamed with all my might. I was so angry at the stupid, freaking snow, and the stupid, freaking universe, that I threw the biggest, sharpest anvils of ice and snow as hard as I possibly could. It helped. That day. Again, I digress....

When I was little, I wrote simply, "I love you, Daddy." As I got older, I wrote things like, "With love from your favorite dancing daughter," or "Your favorite daughter with a birthday in February." Dad had favorites, and everyone was one. Until Anna and Mattie were born, Chrissy was his favorite granddaughter, and afterwards, she was his favorite granddaughter in all of New York State. (Anna and Mattie lived in New Zealand, then Minnesota.) I was his favorite Stephania. He'd always find something, even if it was "You're my favorite dog named Spot." On anyone else, it might come across as being condescending, or conciliatory, but he pulled it off with a magical combination of love and humor. I loved that, and I try to keep it up with my own kids, my nieces, nephews, and other loved ones. Mostly because it makes me think of him whenever I say, "You're my favorite Bubba." And also when the reply is, "You're my favorite Momma."

Later, when I was in college, and beyond, living far away from home, birthday cards were the ideal opportunity to fill him and Mom in on what was going on. I'd sign the card, and then fill the rest of the space with news, anecdotes, questions, invitations and usually stuff it with pictures or clippings. I never was at a loss for what to say, and it never really mattered if I got a response. It was good to share.

After he died, when we were cleaning out his desk, we discovered all those cards and letters. Every one that each of us had ever sent him--and also the ones from his sisters, and from Gramma Katie--were stored in a drawer. Through the tears that streamed down my cheeks, I remembered times when I'd go down to "visit" him in his space in the basement where his desk and chair were, where his workbench was, and all his tools, and he'd be looking through the contents of that drawer. I never knew, nor did I ask, what he was looking at. When we saw the cards, letters, and even pictures--photos and drawings--in that drawer, I knew, without a doubt, that he was looking at love; soothing his soul. I sorted the items as best I could, tied them with ribbon, and returned them to the senders. I still have mine, tucked in a nook in my sewing room. And like him, I keep most of the notes and cards the boys and Guy give me. I don't take them out, but they aren't yet far away. Someday, I might need them.

The past couple of years, I've written words to him as Notes on Facebook. And today I find myself pulled to the words I want to share. Trouble is, it's so hard. With all my heart, I believe he is with me all the time--in my family, my children, my husband, my friends, even--and yet he's just not here. On his birthday, I miss him most of all.

I thought I was doing okay today. I thought this year was going to be different; a little less caustic (because that's what the sorrow is: it burns my heart), and then I read a post and a comment on Facebook. A friend I "met" through a friend said that after four years, "it still cuts straight to the heart." Occasionally, we commiserate on having lost our Daddys, but when a friend of hers said that now she is "in a place of real understanding...." I completely fell apart. That's what hits me hardest, I think, grown women who miss their Daddys. That's what brings it back to me--every one of my scars bleeds fresh, and I just want to crawl up in his lap again.

So there will be words for Dad. But not right now. And as I write them, sitting in his chair at my computer, I will imagine him reading them--again and again.