Some days are rough.
Days like today.
Today was rough.
It was late when I finally closed my eyes last night. I already knew what kind of day I would be waking up to. Still, I went to sleep with a smile on my face.
September 22nd.
Today was my father’s birthday. We celebrated 66 years of his life this evening, as we do every year. My father is happiest when he’s surrounded by his grandchildren, this is obvious to anyone who knows him. Today, I watched him blow out his candles with the help of my sons. They love him as much as he loves them. This is equally obvious.
September 22nd is bittersweet.
My parents moved to Canada in their late 20s. My father is one of 8 children, my mother is the youngest of 9. By the time they moved here, both of them were already used to living away from their families. My sister was born a few years later; 14 months after that, I came along. They had created their own family in Canada; a family they hand picked for all of us. While there was a shortage of blood relations, there was never a shortage of love.
Within that family, was the most special woman of all. I call her my grandmother because she was the closest thing I had to one. Truth is, she often felt like the closest thing I had to a mother too. She raised my sister and I from the time we were only weeks old, until our early teens. She raised us like her own. She was my grandmother, I was her granddaughter. Her family was mine and my family was hers. Naturally, she was married to the man I call my grandfather. He worked all day but we would all wait for him to come home when school was finished. His routine was simple; he always sat down and had a beer. We would give him his space but we would hang around him until he was ready to chase us around the house. He would pretend to take our noses by pinching them between his index and middle fingers. And we’d run because it actually hurt. But we would laugh anyway. We loved his attention. We loved him.
September 22nd was also the day we celebrated his birthday.
But he is no longer here.
He lost his battle to cancer on October 12, 1998. I was 17 years old. We stood next to his bed and he tried to speak to us. He tried but he was too weak. I imagine he probably wanted to tell us that he got our nose one last time. He died later that evening.
While my children celebrate September 22nd with their grandfather, I wake up remembering how much I miss mine.
In 3 weeks, I will visit his grave, as I do every year. This year marks 17 years since his death. He’s been gone for as long as I had the chance to know him. Some people you never forget.
September 22nd.
Goodnight.
And miles to go before I sleep 