Happy Birthday, Daddy.

Although you’ve been gone eight years now, I’m happy for you— there in your mansion in the sky. You see, life is not easy in the world we live in today. Things have changed so much, you wouldn’t recognize the place you once knew. I long to sit in your living room on lazy Sunday afternoons and answer the same questions you asked over and again and listen to you crunch on peppermint candy. I hunger to slip into the kitchen, take a piece of Mother’s crispy fried chicken from the warming oven, place it on a napkin, and gloat it in the presence of all who have gathered for Sunday visits, reminiscing about the way things used to be.

We had a reunion last Sunday. Lots of family members were there— members from both Mother’s side of the family and yours. I’m sure the two of you would have enjoyed being there. Since Roger bought the home place, he’s fixed it up nicely. He only uses it on weekends, though— sorta like people use their cabins in the mountains. I do think you and Mother would like it a lot. You would especially like what he’s done with the bathroom. It is much more convenient than before. You no longer have to go through five rooms to get to it. Remember putting it in while I was in Vietnam? Remember, too, the day I came home: the first time I needed to use the bathroom, I went out the back door and headed for the toilet. I was almost halfway there before remembering that you’d put in a new bathroom. When I turned around to come back into the house, you and Mother were standing in the kitchen doorway, laughing. That was a little more than forty years ago. You remember all the good times, don’t you?

Your last sixteen years on earth were very confusing for you. The doctor called it dementia. I’m sure you’re okay now, though. The Great Physician has made you well. And I know you’re especially happy since Mother and Philip have joined you. I’m glad you weren’t here to see Philip suffer with cancer. It would have upset you something awful. You were so good to all of us when we were sick. Remember when Philip and I had the measles? Mother made us lie in bed nine days with the blinds pulled to protect our eyes from the light. You brought us a case of Pepsi in, and we were allowed to drink it anytime we wanted. You may not remember doing that, but I remember it well.

Although I’m now sixty-one years old, I haven’t forgotten how you kissed all of us awake before leaving for work each morning, to spend a hard day laboring on the railroad. You said it was the hottest place in summer and the coldest place in winter. But you didn’t seem to mind, though, for I never once heard you grumble.

Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I remembered your birthday. Know, too, that we all miss you. You were a good daddy.

Love,

David