Steak, hash browns, Dolly Sin Cake and then presents. That has been the consistent schedule of events on the evening of my birthday ever since I can remember, but now I make sure to include some time to cry.
My dad often cooked steak for our family dinners. He also would make these delicious hash browns made from diced frozen potatoes. He’d load them with salt, olive oil and tons of paprika, leaving them a beautiful orange color. He was able to get the ones on the bottom of the pan nice and crisp, yet still leave the ones on top mushy but still intact. And I guess at some point in my childhood youth, I dictated that this meal be my birthday meal.
I have always hated holidays for the horrible feeling of disappointment they often leave me with, but never my birthday. I love my birthday so much. I impatiently wait for my birthday month every year, and start celebrating the week of my birthday, informing people to get ready because it’s my birthday, turning it into a big hoopla. The actual day itself is filled with love and warm wishes from my friends and family. I love receiving presents, and it’s just nice to feel so special for a day.
But somewhere amidst all the happy birthday text messages, e-mails and phone calls, usually when I am making my own hash browns and they don’t taste quite as good as my dad’s, I have to cry. I have had exactly six (soon to be seven) birthdays without my dad now. And I have cried at some point during each one.
I cry for another year of my life spent without my dad.
I cry for all the moments he’s missed;
I cry for all the moments he is going to miss;
For the new people in my life he is never going to meet;
But mostly, I cry for the birthday he is missing right now and for the sad little birthday girl he is not here to comfort.
