Birthday Cake

Mom told me this past weekend that you didn't have cake on your birthday as a kid. The vision of you devouring one, two, sometimes three slices of chocolate cake each birthday became more brilliant in my memory when I learned this. You'd polish off that cake -- and ice cream -- with the glee of a child. And then you'd lick the plate. You'd belly-laugh after that plate was clean and tease us if we were a little embarrassed by it. I can see your smile and hear you laugh, still.

You got sillier and more open about being silly as you aged, and on what would have been your 80th birthday, I'm feeling a bit sad not to know what it would have been like to see you eat cake today. Maybe your hair would have finally gone white. Maybe you would have false teeth or a bigger belly. Maybe you would have been sicker or frailer. Maybe you would have been even sillier or maybe you'd have lost your memory.

Not knowing is a part of grief and loss that can make us feel more distracted by what would have than by what was. Maybes I can't answer to, so I try to stick to cake. When I tell people about how you loved chocolate cake on your birthday, maybe more deeply because it was something you didn't get to enjoy as a child, they take part in your memory and spirit. Friends send me photos of chocolate cake they're enjoying today, drinks they're toasting you with, and similar notes and images of love for the good stuff.

I wish you got to turn 80, Dad, but I love that you live on in all of us, in all of the cake that was gobbled up today.

-atp