My dad died on Tuesday, just a few hours after I turned 40.

It’s like a pill that’s too big to swallow. It’s like a story I’m telling that isn’t my own; a story I wish I could separate myself from. Words so definitive that don’t at all capture all the feelings those words hold.

I cried in front of a cashier at the store yesterday. It’s like that — it just hits when it hits and it hits unapologetically, without any warning. It begs to be seen and I try to let it.

My dad was honest and loyal and caring. He was also simple; always easy to please and never taking more than what he needed. He was silly and playful and joyful. A man that always let his actions speak for him. Humble as the day is long. Loyal to his family.

I have so much more I want to say but I’m struggling to write about him in the past tense. I’m not there yet.

I’ve never done life without him. I don’t know if I’ll remember to turn off my sprinklers when it rains, to have my dryer vent cleaned out regularly, and to use my gas points to save a few bucks at the pump.

This morning I did my meditation in my sunroom as the sun was coming up and shining through the trees in my backyard. It’s been cloudy lately, remnants of last month’s June gloom lingering into July. But this morning, I positioned myself to be fully covered in the light and when I closed my eyes, I saw the orange of the light I was feeling warming my skin. I felt my dad and I had the realization that it’s not that those of us who have lost a loved one see their loved one in everything, it’s that they can find their loved one in anything. It’s a choice. Just like so much of what I’ve learned already on my healing journey.

Epiphanies, they’re going off like landmines.

I miss you, dad. I miss you so much. I’ll never get over losing you. I’ll also never stop finding you in everything, everywhere.

My birthday will forever bring me back to you. What a gift.