My Daddy's birthday

I used to have trouble remembering to call him on his birthday. 

Since he lost his brave and all-too-brief fight with cancer in 2005, I never have trouble remembering his birthday. 

He used to say, "We should get together and do something together one of these days." 

"I'll line something up and give you a call," he would say.

"Yeah, I'll think of something and give you a call," I would say.

There was one time we met by chance -- at the cemetery.  It was shortly after my mother's death, and I would go and spend hours.  Pulling weeds, placing flowers, crying, praying, talking, crying.  I would pack a lunch.  Anyway, Dad found me there all red-eyed and weird, and said, "Hey, let's go get a cup of coffee or something."

But I just couldn't.  

Of course now I wish I had.  Of course now that the pain of that time is only a memory I wonder why I hadn't.  I beat myself up about that and many other things on a semi-regular basis. 

Okay I'm done here since it looks like I'm only spiraling downward.

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