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.