Today would have been my father’s birthday. He’s been gone more than thirteen years now, but I still miss him.
I miss him especially when I notice that I am becoming him, in small ways — what I like to eat, the way I sit, some speech patterns, some mannerisms. I am sure that neither he nor I would ever have believed we would converge in this way; we lived so very different lives.
He was always there for me, no matter how much he disagreed with things I’d said or done. He was always there.
Happy birthday, Dad!