Today is August 6, and yesterday was my father’s birthday. He would have turned 90, and it had passed completely unnoticed. This is the first time that has happened. The truly bizarre thing is that realizing this made me realize that I had also completely failed to notice the passing of the anniversaries this summer of his and my mother’s deaths as well. It’s been thirteen and fifteen years, respectively, and I don’t especially want to commemorate these dates. However, it does seem strange and jarring once you realize that you have effectively forgotten to commemorate them. It’s a double-edged sword – on the one hand I like to think it means I’ve gotten on with it as I’m sure they would like me to do. But on the other hand it feels selfish, as if they’re not important enough to warrant the smallest of gestures, not even the raising of a glass and saying, “Here’s to you, Papa!”
Here’s to you, Papa.
Does it really matter what day I say that?