16 October 2014 
Happy Birthday, Dad

Hiya Dad, 

     Today's your birthday; you would have been 81 today. It's the crack of dawn, of course ~ I'm still not sleeping much. Any other year, I'd be looking forward to seeing you on your birthday. I would've gone to your house to have lunch with you and Mom, and I probly would've taken you some treats, like tootsie rolls and pistachios and maybe some peanuts in the shell. Perhaps I would've painted you something. I'd have hugged you in your chair and said, "Happy Birthday, Dad! I love you!" and kissed you on the head.  We'd have had lunch, with Mom flitting about, never quite sitting down to eat with us.  We'd have talked about my art projects, about what Aly's up to and where she's looking into PhD programs and how Johnny's adjusting to life in Germany.  You'd have been happy to hear how they're both doing, and you'd have nodded your head at me as I rattled on about them.  I wish I could tell you all their goings-on, about the PhD programs that Aly's interested in and how her classes are going now and what projects she is working on and I know you'd love the fact that she's running a comic book club for little kids, and about how happy Johnny is and that he's adjusting well and that he loves his classes and I know you'd love the fact that he's growing and learning so much on his own ~ you'd be so proud of them both, Dad.  It is hard for me to not be sad, because I am selfish and I miss you, and I know that this year, this birthday, I won't see you or hug you, or tell you about Aly and Johnny. 

      I'm going to spend the day with Mom, of course. We're both determined to celebrate your life and not mourn your death.  We'll go to lunch and then go back to her house to have cheesecake in your honor.  Oh, speaking of her house, you'll be glad to know that yesterday her Georgia-red counter tops got installed.  She cried from happiness, remembering the ones in Georgia and being so happy to have the back with her here, in Indiana, in the house she loves.  Remembering is a double-edged sword.  For her, everywhere she looks, everything she sees, is part of remembering you, from Oregon to San Diego, in Georgia, in the house here, everywhere. Mom grieves for you, but her memories also comfort her. This day will be hard for Mom, but I will try, Dad, I will try to keep my own emotions in check and help her to be as happy as she can be today.   I don't want to be sad on your birthday. My day has just begun, with tears and this letter; I promise to put up a good front for Mom today. 

      Dad, I wish I could tell you about my altar.  A few days ago, I found out Nickel Plate is having a Dia de Los Muertos celebration all day on November 1st.  They are including homemade altars in the exhibit; I am making an altar for their event.  The altar is really for you, Dad.   I know you did not want a funeral service or an obituary, but I know you would love a Dia de Los Muertos altar.  You and I both love Calaveras and Day of the Dead stuff; our "Mr. Bones" collections.  I'm using a lot of your things on the altar, and I'm using the top of your rainbow "sushi table"; Mom gave it to me about a week ~ really, she insisted I take it, saying that I "had to have it" even though I was not sure what to do with it.  You know the last thing I need in my house is another "coffee table" but at the time, that's all I could think to do with the piece: make a coffee table by attaching legs. 

      Anyway, Mom insisted I take it.  Who knew that a week later, I'd be making a Dia de Los Muertos altar and that your rainbow slab would be the perfect altar top??  I guess YOU knew, so that's why Mom gave it to me.  I've made legs for it; I'll attach them tomorrow and then start arranging the items I've chosen.  The back of the altar will be that board, the movie poster piece from my bed, that you used in the linen closet of Tower Court some 30-odd years ago ~ celebrating your love of movies and my love of movies and the whole Tower Court story.  I'm so happy to make this altar for you, Dad.  I'm calling it "Somewhere Over The Rainbow."  I'll put things on it that you loved, the Joker and Frankenstein, and your Cornel mug, and the mug with Aly's and Johnny's picture on it, and some of your old paintbrushes, and some Navy things, and your purple gloves.  Remember that clock I gave you when you retired, with the Latin inscription?  Mom gave that clock back to me last week; I'll use it on the altar because I believe now, finally, "tranquility is yours".  I stopped the time on the clock at 3:45, Dad. 

      I'm using your little skullcap hat and your black round-rimmed glasses that you loved so much; I fixed the broken part of their frames, Dad.  I painted the skull you gave me, the one that has forever been on my hearth; I put blue "gems" in the eye sockets because I know you would not want them just black and empty.  I used a lot of your favorite color orange, in the Calavera skull design, Dad, and your hat and glasses will be on that skull.  I chose photos of you that I know you like.  I'll put your big bottle of Bootles gin on it, and some pistachios and peanuts in the shells and tootsie rolls ~ for your Dia de Los Muertos journey.  It is a labor of love, creating this altar, and I am so happy to do it for you, but I have to tell you, Dad, that I cried and cried when I came home from the store with my bags of treats to scatter on the altar.   I cried because, of course, those are the very things I would've taken to you today, for your birthday.  That fact just didn't really hit me until I got home.  It broke my heart to realize that I cannot ever again on your birthday give you some treats like pistachios and tootsie rolls and peanuts in the shells.  I love you, Dad.  Happy Birthday. 

Love, 
Alys

P.S. Here is a poem I wrote for you.

Distance and Death

There were those years of distance

that cast a shadow between us,

when long dark roads divided us,

and our town was not home

for me;

those years fall away

and now,

the unrelenting distance

of death

casts a deeper shadow

yet always

you are with me ~

in our beloved town,

I see you standing

just across the street,

on a sidewalk hazy

in the last of summer's heat;

I'm working on some project,

thinking, 'I just cannot do it',

then I feel your hand resting

gently on my shoulder,

I hear your encouraging whisper,

"You can do this, Alys";

as I fall asleep,

I hear you calling my name

as if we are still

just across from each other

in that old living room,

and I stay awake to listen;

with dawn's first cup of coffee,

I remember

the first coffee I ever drank

~ bitter, sweet, and creamy ~

was with you.

In the smallest of things,

I remember you.