The last time I spoke with Joe was on 5/7/15, 5 months before my birthday this past week. He died on 5-15-15 and last week I turned 55. Not that 5 is a magic number or anything. It just stood out as the day he died had.
Joe had always at least called to wish me a happy birthday.
He had bought me some interesting presents over the years and had done the same for my parents as well. Fun ones included a fake half-section of a ceramic alligator to have in their backyard as though coming out of the shadows. Behind their current couch is a painting of a sailboat he bought for their new place. Next to my couch where I live is a small ceramic drum he’d brought back from Morocco when he’d gone with Danielle a few years back.
She’s traveling there soon to say another farewell to him, like the one we did last month when we set his ashes free to travel out to the sea and surf.
I’ve still got the voice mails from the previous 3-years from Joe, wishing me well on my birthday. Some days it is just so heavy to reckon with his absence and the way he departed.
All I could ever wish for for my birthday was that he wasn’t gone, I’d trade all of my worldly possessions for that.