Happy Birthday, Sweetie
It would’ve, should’ve, been his 57th birthday today. It’s also 20 months since the day he died. The irony of celebrating the coming into this world of someone who’s left it is more poignant than is entirely comfortable, but so it is. This date was important to me, and I would as soon forget my own birthday as his, but it actually feels a little cruel to mark (I don’t think "celebrate" is the right word here) a birthday that is not happening. He will always be 55; or more probably, he is ageless.
I wonder if some day I will be 57. I imagine the 57-year-old me (and the 56-year-old me, as well) will spend a fair amount of time remembering him, and wonder if I am now as wise and patient and incredibly sexy as he was. I’m guessing probably not. It will be weird to be older than he, to have passed 20 years without him. I really thought I’d have 20 years with him. Will I ever get to the point where I won’t internally rail at our being cheated? Probably not; I come from a long line of grudge-holders.
Happy Birthday, Sweetheart. I really wish you were here for me to crack "old" jokes at your expense. If it’s any consolation, I’m aging at twice the rate I was before. I love you, and hope you’re having a wonderful eternity. You deserve it.