Has It Really Been Seven Years?

Happy Birthday, Pop.

I’m thinking about you today.

I wish you were here to go to a thrift store or get a doughnut.

Maybe we could even sit in the garage and listen to music while you tell me a story about Caruso.

Or we could share some See’s and talk about your mom and dad.

Then we could pull out the graph paper and draw our dream houses or chart the year’s best horses.

Later in the day, you could call me and pretend to be a serious government employee, needing information only I can provide.

Your name would be something like Petunia Snardfarter.  Or maybe that would be me.

Do you remember that time we were turning into the parking lot of the Amvets store on Broadway around 9:00 a.m. on a Saturday?  A six-foot-something man (?) dressed in drag with great long fishnet-stockinged legs crossed in front of the car and wagged his tongue suggestively, right in your direction.  I think he wanted to get to know you better.  Do you remember?

Or how about the time I walked a few paces ahead of you one evening as we were leaving the Tower Records on El Cajon?  A couple of twenty-something punks started hitting on me in the parking lot.  You grumbled something to dissuade their bad behavior, so they asked if you were my granddad and you replied that you were my husband.  I think I turned four shades of red, but they turned six, so it was fine.  Do you remember that?

I remember all of it.  And more.

It all still makes me chuckle.

You were such a good dad.

You always made me laugh.

I miss our friendship.

I really do.

Happy Birthday, Pop.

I hope those other angels bake you some devil’s food today.  🙂

With white frosting.

♥♥