Today would be your 69th birthday. I’d normally be calling you and reminding you that 69 years ago you were crying like a newborn baby. Tonight we’re getting together and the only person missing will be you.

I can’t tell if I’m tortured by the memory of lying in bed with you as you were dying or if it’s something I’m holding onto so hard, the last memories with you; our last touch… Me stroking your sunken cheeks, scanning your body for the light that once filled it. Your energy, your spirit, leaving before my eyes.

I miss you so much.

The other day you came to me in a dream. I was at a party and you were talking to Hooper in the distance. Your back was to me but I knew it was you instantly. You turned and I ran into your arms. Even in my unconscious state I was conscious of not wanting to wake up. And even after I woke up, all I wanted to do was go back to sleep to find you again.

I think of that part in Beetlejuice where he’s sitting next to that guy with the really small head and all the dead are waiting in line to figure out the whole life of being dead. I had been waiting for you to come to me in a dream — envisioning you on the other side learning how to connect and send messages to the ones grieving your loss.

A few days later Van said you were in his dream, too. I started to laugh and cry thinking of you making your way down the list; meeting us all in the ways we need, in the ways we’re open to seeing you.

It doesn’t feel like enough and it’s easy to fall into the pity of wanting more but that feeling of waking up after seeing you, feeling you, and loving you was complete. And when everything about your death feels like a loss, I’m happy to hold onto that as a gain.

Tonight, we’ll honor you. We’ll fumble, we’ll laugh, we’ll cry. Grief really is just love with nowhere to go. Happy birthday, dad.