I thought about you a lot yesterday. You would have been 84 had you not died at 56. The older I get, the less I remember about you. And, yet, there you are. Glimpses in the mirror. (Shit, yeah, I still have mostly dark, dark hair, closing in on the age you were when you died.) And, yes, I still have that "Hoyt sweat" damaging all of my clothes. (Really, what removes sweat stains? I need to know because Le Daughter is equally cursed and I am the laundress of the house.)
I wish you were here. I wish you got to embarrass the hell out of my kids with your singing. I wish you got to see, firsthand, that I did, actually, go on and have children. Late in life, for sure, but I had them. One. Then two. Then, oh, shit, a third.
Mostly, though, I wish I believed in an afterlife so I would get to see you again. Alas and alack, no, I don't. So you're gone from here. And I will be gone from here soon enough. And eventually all who knew you will be gone. And no one will remember.
But, for now, I remember. And I miss you. And I wish I could remember you more than I do.
The kids are all right, Dad. We manage. We muddle -- or muggle -- through. And on your birthday and at many more times than I'd likely admit, we channel you. Now, let's all stand up and sing, "Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay, I'll take your pants away. And while you're standing there, I'll take your underwear."