Sunday, October 25, 2009

...a pudgy faced pre-schooler.

Today would be my father's 65th birthday. He was 63 when he died almost a year and half ago. I was looking on my computer for a picture of him to post here in honour of his birthday. I wanted to find the most recent one so I started looking from the day before he died and went back in my files. I only got a few folders in when I found this...

This is the photo that made me burst in to tears. This is the pudgy faced pre-schooler that my father knew. This is the little girl that rode her bike from the church to the senior's centre at my dad's funeral to honour him in her own way while we were all on motorcycles. This is the innocent child that watched her mom cry and ache with the deepest sorrow I have ever known. Those little shoulders had no idea the weight they would have to bear in the weeks to follow after this photo was taken. This sweet little soul isn't the same now. She can ride her two wheeler, she can do the monkey bars, she can read and count to one hundred and today she learned to write her name in cursive. She is a big sister, a grade oner, a six year old... She is someone that my father will never know. I can barely see the keyboard through the tears as I type these words. My grief still overcomes me regularly and fills me so completely that I feel I will burst, or melt, or scream.

Happy Birthday Dad.


  1. This is so overwhelming, my mom's 65th birthday is today I don't want to think of her knowing Etta for only a short time. My heart aches for you as I read this. You are a beautiful person and writer.

  2. Thank you Sandy! I have a feeling Etta is going to be a fun little person to know and your parents strike me as being a lot like my own. So capable and confident as grandparents that their relationship with Etta will be solid, unwavering and deeply valued by everyone involved. I could never have imagined when this photo was taken that I would be looking back in this way. Strangely, what I have discovered in the last year and four months is that although my father will not know Meg as she grows up and never knew Lola, they both know him. And will always know him on a soul level that we can not explain. He is woven into the fabric of their lives.