61/17

On what would have been my father’s 61st birthday, I got a mani pedi. I woke up as the sun rose, because I’d scheduled the appointment for 8am, and it would take me about an hour to get there. I rode the train with big headphones. Listened to an audiobook.

During the day time, I scrolled through Twitter looking at Game of Thrones reactions. At lunch, I went to Sephora to make a return. I left work early to pick up a pair of prescription sunglasses. I ate leftover salmon I brought home from the office.

It’s been almost 17 years since I lost my father. I’ve been in this world without him longer than I was here with him. I’ve celebrated his birthday sixteen times without him. And with every year, May 13th starts to become like any other day of the year—ordinary.

And that’s what mourning is, isn’t it? The buffing away of the sharp edges of the thing, until all you have in your hand is a worn, heavy stone. A talisman you hold tight, but no longer feel the sting of. A deep and heavy grief you can never put down. You just carry it, weighty and quiet. Through every ordinary day.