Happy Birthday Old Man. ♥️♥️

Two Things Can Be True.

The other day, I stepped outside and found two clouds that almost refused to melt into each other.

One dark. One white.

And between them was this wall.

I snapped a picture, but of course the picture does the wall no justice. It never does. The clouds looked like they were colliding and refusing to give way at the same time.

Then I noticed they looked a little like two hearts.

I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with that yet, so I just kept the picture.

Today would have been your 71st birthday, old man.

And for the first time in my life, I’m having a hard time picturing you that age.

The truth is, Daddy, I don’t know if you would have made it to 71.

My first thought after admitting that was, Jesus Christ, Peanut. That’s morbid.

But then another thought came right behind it.

Maybe I can picture you at every age I actually knew you because I spent all these years trying to keep you moving forward with me.

What would Daddy think?

What would Daddy say?

What would he tell me to do?

What would he think of this shit storm?

What would he think of me?

Grief kept adding imaginary years to your life because I wasn’t ready for you to stop having a future.

And maybe this year, I finally am.

Not because I’m ready to lose you.

I already did that.

More than once.

Maybe because I’ve finally allowed myself to grieve you enough that you don’t have to keep aging just so I can keep you.

Two things can be true.

I can miss the absolute hell out of you and not be sad that you didn’t have to grow old down here.

I can be grateful beyond words for the thirteen years we got after your aneurysm and still be angry as hell about what we were robbed of during them.

I can know you.

Really know you.

And I can admit that sometimes when I say Daddy would tell me to do this, what I really mean is I hope this is what you would tell me to do.

Maybe that’s part of growing up without you too.

There is one hell of a shit storm spinning down here right now, Daddy.

But I’m moving differently.

And for the first time in my life, I know without a shadow of a doubt that you would be so damn proud of your Peanut.

Not because I’ve handled everything perfectly.

Jesus, no.

I’m doing the best I can in an ever-growing pile of 💩.

But I know that now.

I know I’m doing the best I can.

I don’t need everybody surrounding me to agree with my reality before I’m allowed to trust it.

I don’t need to prove every wound before I’m allowed to admit that it hurt.

I don’t have to become cruel because someone was cruel to me.

And I don’t have to drown just because somebody else keeps dragging me toward deeper water.

I think I understand something now that I couldn’t possibly have understood when you were trying to teach it to me.

All those talks.

All those tears.

All those things you tried to prepare me for.

You knew I was like you.

And maybe you could already see something I couldn’t.

Some of the people circling our boat were never going to become anything other than exactly who they were.

You couldn’t change that for me.

You couldn’t make sure nobody ever pulled me under.

So you did the only thing you could do.

You taught me how to survive the undertow.

You also spent my entire childhood telling me if you play by the fire, you’re gonna get burned.

Well.

In hindsight, Boss Man, you really should have been more specific.

You raised a child who takes words literally.

You never said I couldn’t play by the fire.

You just said I was gonna get burned.

And technically, sir, you were correct.

I got burned.

More than once.

Last year I damn near fell directly into the fucking fire, looked around from inside it like, well, this seems problematic, crawled my ass back out, laughed at it, and kept going.

So I don’t know if that’s exactly what you intended for me to learn from that particular lesson, but here we are.

Maybe you should’ve read the fine print before raising a daughter who inherited your stubbornness.

But maybe that was the lesson after all.

You never promised me I wouldn’t get burned.

You just made damn sure I knew a burn wasn’t the same thing as an ending.

And, Daddy, I am grateful beyond words.

I think that’s why those clouds stopped me.

Because that’s it.

That’s the visual.

Darkness and light touching the same sky.

Close enough to collide.

Close enough that one could disappear into the other.

But they didn’t.

There was still a boundary.

I have lived most of my life somewhere along that wall.

I’ve gotten close to the darkness.

Hell, I’ve lived inside some of it.

I’ve loved people there.

I’ve begged people there.

I’ve fought for people there.

I’ve lost myself there.

But no matter how close I got, some part of me refused to become so immersed in it that I drowned.

I used to think strength meant you taught me how to stay out of the dark.

You didn’t.

You gave me something much more useful.

How to remain light.

You taught me how to find my way home from it without ever teaching me to condemn myself for having feelings while I was there.

So yes, I miss you, Daddy.

More than a fish misses the sea.

But this year, there is something else sitting beside the missing.

Gratitude.

I’m grateful I get to scream Happy Birthday all the way up there.

I’m grateful I don’t have to know what 71 looked like on you.

I’m grateful you don’t have to be sick.

I’m grateful you don’t have to hurt.

And I’m even grateful that when I close my eyes, Boss Man is still exactly where I left him.

But I can mean every word of that and still be sad about everything you didn’t get to see.

I can be grateful you didn’t have to grow old down here and still wish like hell you’d gotten to.

Because you can’t see how great your sons are doing.

You can’t be at pancakes with Pops for LFB.

Little Beau Keith will never get to meet you.

Zac will never know the embarrassment of thumb wrestling his homecoming date or joking about having a few screws loose.

You can’t wrap your arms around Michelle in a situation not even her Papa Fred could have fixed.

And God, the way you would have lit up knowing Connie Kay was living her dream.

Those things still hurt.

Maybe they always will.

Because two things can be true here too.

I can be grateful you were spared the parts of growing old that might have hurt you and still grieve every beautiful, terrible, ordinary thing growing old would have let you be here for.

I don’t wish the suffering back onto you just because I wish you were here.

I think maybe that’s the part of grief I didn’t understand before.

Loving you doesn’t require me to wish you back into every part of what would have come next.

And accepting that you’re gone doesn’t require me to be okay with everything you missed.

Both get to exist.

Just like those clouds.

Neither one has to swallow the other.

I have grief around that too.

It feels almost silly admitting that I’ve never really aged you in my mind.

But this year somebody did.

Seventy-one.

And I tried to picture it.

I couldn’t.

For once, I wasn’t angry about that either.

Maybe you disappearing from my future doesn’t mean you’re disappearing from me.

Maybe it just means I’ve finally stopped asking you to keep living past your death.

You don’t have to get old for me, Daddy.

I like Boss Man just fine the way he is in my memories.

And maybe you don’t have to keep listening for me either.

I’m all grown up now.

I’ll carry your legacy forward the best way I know how.

You raised a capable woman.

And I think it’s finally time for me to be okay with being an adult without you here to supervise it.

It’s your birthday, and I will not lay one more grand epiphany of mine on you today.

I’ve given you enough homework for one afterlife.

So go fishing.

Open a Pepsi-Cola.

Put up your feet.

Turn on some Alabama football.

You can even sleep on your good ear.

I promise.

I’m okay now, Daddy.

You don’t have to listen for me anymore.

For the love of Christ, old man…

Freaking rest.

It’s about damn time.

Happy Birthday Old Man. 😊

Love your one and only,

Peanut ♥️ Baby Girl ♥️ Sweetheart ♥️

Fart Blossom 🙄