I think I’m a bit of an ‘in the moment’ kinda gal. I love to dream, and in fact I set aside weekly daydreaming time in my diary to make sure I get my fill of fluffy future times, or as Joe Dispenza would say, “Creating a memory of the future” but outside of that, my family life and my work compels me to be all Fat Boy Slim. I simply can’t allow the past to determine my future, nor can I think too much about what may be. In the moment all the way, baby.
Which means once something is done, it’s done. I think about it a little, make some meaning from it, and then move along folks, nothing to see here.
So the idea of people having a heavenly birthday, although quite lovely in its intent, isn’t my jam. The age that someone “would’ve been” means very little to me. I’m a bit black and white. They aren’t here. So that’s that.
Yesterday was my Dad’s birthday.
And it kind of snuck up on me. I was busy trying to think of other things, and yet it came and went anyway. He’s been gone a good number of years now. More than a decade, less than a score. Long enough that I have been able to grow around the space he left in my heart, but not long enough that I’ve forgotten the way he cleared his throat before he spoke, the way he rested his hand on my mum’s shoulder when she needed his support, the way his eyes twinkled intelligently when he was patiently and carefully considering a new idea.
So many years, so many moments. And then time compresses down and it was yesterday that he was pushing our kids on the swing (way too high by the way) and saying, “Zoom zoom” whilst they squealed with pure terri-joy.
So what do you get a man who
has everything is no longer here?
You get him a red wine emoji in the family chat and think of all the peppery-chocolate scented Henschke he tipped down the sink because it “tasted funny” when he was wracked with cancer cells. You get him some space in your thoughts as you sit on he couch and stare at his-now-your records, and think of how he taught you to slide them out of their crinkly sleeves and reverently place them on the turntable, closing your eyes as you wait through the first crackles to where the songs burst through. You give him your hairbrush so that he can gently brush the knots from your wet hair as you thaw out by the fire-at least it feels like you can do that, even though you can’t. You give him immortality, by yet again mentioning his name.
Again and again.
Even on the days when it’s not his birthday and even when the people around you have grown tired of hearing about him.
Happy heavenly birthday Peter.