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Birthday
Copyright 2015 Christina M. Guerrero
DEDICATION
This is for My Love. RIP.
STORY BEHIND THE STORY
As a journalist and writer, I would be shirking my personal legacy
and my professional responsibilities by not sharing this.
ABOUT THE DRAFTS
Draft Number One: I imagine there were comments and thoughts along the line of
"you won't share this in person, but you'll post it on the world wide web." Bahaha.
Draft Number Two: Getting there. Tweaking it. Too many "I"'s. Bunches of them. Must. Edit.
Draft Number Three: Nothing, yet.
“They” say that grief will be more intense during birthdays and holidays.
So I was surprised when his birthday arrived, and I was feeling calm.
But, suddenly, when I least expected it, I was aware of the entire matter. It was his birthday but he was deceased, and he would not be celebrating this momentous occasion here on earth.
It came then: the tears. And much more than that. I ran away, where I could be alone. I retreated as nonchalantly as possible and found a place to be thoroughly truthful about how I felt.
I have sometimes seen people, on newscasts, dropping to their knees upon tragic news. I’ve seen actors do it in dramatic films.
I came close to doing this. I let loose, and let the grief out, wailing. I felt his presence, as if he were also weeping, also wailing. It felt like he was moving out of my soul for a moment, and I did not want him to go.
I remembered the stages of this loss. They were all horrible and traumatic and tragic. I remembered the last time I saw his face.
I remembered special times, and his face ... and his smile ... and his presence.
I remembered his spirit.
And I wondered if he would give me a sign, as I believe he has on a regular basis since his death.
I wondered ... would he? Something nice on his birthday would be a wonderful way to be in touch, despite this loss.
When ... suddenly ... I remembered the way his head was tilted one day when he was making a comment to a mutual friend.
He and our friend were quibbling, when he suddenly said in a perfect example of sotto voce, “ ... make you wait ....”
When I thought about his comment, when I remembered the tilt of his head, his posture, and his tone of voice when he said it ...
I laughed and laughed and laughed.
And laughed some more.
I did not see anything unusual on his birthday.
But I did feel his presence ... close to me at first, then shifting away for a moment, then returning with the memory of his funny words.
"Make you wait" ... the words were significant on his birthday when I was grieving.
Make me wait, huh? I wondered.
He did give me a sign after all: his essence; himself; only him.
That was all I needed.
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