My Own Milestone
I turn 36 this year.
I have been thinking about this particular birthday for many years.
Every ‘big’ birthday before this one was deemed a milestone because of the cultural and societal expectations that came with the number.
At 16 - I could drive.
At 18 - I could vote.
At 21 - I could drink.
At 25 - I hit my ‘quarter’ life.
At 30 - I reached a new decade.
But this year?
At 36 - I became the age that my dad died.
Bits and Bobs
I once read that memory is like a photograph that goes through a copy machine. Every time you pick it up and revisit it, it becomes a little bit more warped. You think you’re remembering the same thing, but the picture changes every time.
After a while, is the memory even reality?
I wonder about the pictures I see in my mind with my dad.
The time that I sat on his stomach and I was shocked that he swallowed his gum, because Mom told me it sticks to your ribs.
The one time he came back from work and I was miserably sitting on the couch with the stomach flu, angry at my mom for giving me a suppository. He told me he had a surprise and popped in the movie Cinderella.
When he died, I was five and he was 36.
People would shake their heads sadly at me, murmuring: “He was so young.”
But 36 felt so far away, so old to a five-year-old.
And now, thirty six is here for me.
They were right. He was so young.
As time went on, his things were packed up and given away. His shirts, his shoes. And then eventually the house that he bought for us, the one where I would run to the front door and meet him, was also sold and left behind.
Of course, there are still a few things left. My mom had kept small things, drawings and doodles that he had created with his own hands. This is a gift she gave me that I know I will treasure for the rest of my life. I still stare at the imprint of the pencil lines, touching the glass that houses this art.
I didn't realize it until recently...he was 14 when he drew this, dating it with the flourish of an artist.
When I visited my grandma earlier this year, I dug through old photos that my cousin found and saw some pictures of him. I didn’t recognize any of the people he was with in those photos. But these were new photos of him that I had never seen before, and it was a reminder that he had so many moments that I will never know. His friends, his dreams, his highs and his lows.
How much of my temperament did I get from him? Did he love to read as much as I do? Did he thirst for a life full of adventure, or longed for a stable life of contentment?
These are the bits and bobs and filaments of existence of him left in this world that I cling to with desperation.
The time in between
A few weeks ago, I went for a jog and I thought about this birthday, the age that my dad was forever frozen in time.
I counted in my head the amount of time from his 36th birthday to the day that he had died. March 31 to September 13th.
Six months.
Where would I be in six months, in 2021?
What will that look like?
Wait.
A thought shot through me like ice.
Will I even be here?
Every moment, minute, and movement is passing by and within the whole Universe and beyond, I am a blink. I would like to be here in six months. I’d like to be here in sixty years.
But I don’t know if I will be.
None of us do.
When I was a kid and it came up that my dad died when I was young, the first response is usually: “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I would find myself saying.
In my mind, the loss of him was just like a scar that you get when you can’t remember the pain. It was a scar that was marked on me, but no longer hurt.
Until there are the moments when it does again.
And, in that moment just a few weeks ago during my jog, with every breath that I took, I realized that I will always ache for him.
That he was here, and he is gone, and it was all too fast.
And that, perhaps - God willing - I will be given much more time than him. Time he never had, time we’ll never have.
And I cried.
My feet pounded the pavement as I willed myself to keep running and keep moving forward. I cried out in the open, out in public, a paper mask on my face that I donned in the hopes that I keep others and myself safe during this time of uncertainty.
I cried because it’s not fair.
Life and death are never, ever fair.
"Cry Heart, but Never Break"
Grief has been a specter in our lives these days, and for me it’s not just because of this particular birthday.
We have all suddenly realized - whether consciously or not - that we are truly global citizens, and not just the ones of our chosen or designated country.
We are all enveloped in this same cloud of grief.
While many of us are at different stages, it’s undeniable that the loss of lives, the end of a normalcy we had known, and the crushing wounds of communities in pain reverberates in our core being.
There are those that deny the virus exists. There are people rightfully angry that the system we had in place is letting vulnerable people fall through the cracks. Many of us wonder if the trades we are making are worth it (“Should I send my kids back to school, even with cases rising? How do I balance work?”) and then there is the achingly painful isolation that many of us feel as we are separated from our loved ones.
Will we one day reach that last one -- acceptance?
Perhaps.
But I think it takes one small step at a time.
Start Small. Most importantly, Start.
Since things closed down back in March, I’ve been thinking about the entire world and my own small world.
Though I lost one of the pillars of my life at a young age, I am grateful for those small moments, the small things that I have.
It made me realize that every day that I spend with my child will one day be those memories that she, I hope, will find in those times of loneliness. And that goes for every moment I choose to spread a little love to people in my life. I can only fervently pray that I have many more of those small moments that will accumulate into a rich, beautiful life.
After all, we often ignore the individual grains of sand until one day we realize that they create a beautiful beach.
For my birthday, if you, dear reader, made it this far, here is what I wish: that you’ll be moved to do something small.
For yourself, for a loved one, for the community. Anything.
Because every small moment counts.
And if you need ideas, and because I love lists, here are 36 ideas...
Write down three things you love about yourself today.
Write down a dream you have.
When you take a bite of food today, close your eyes and savor the bite.
Drink a glass of water. Do it, hydrate.
Do something that makes you want to laugh. Watch a comedy, or a video of an animal.
Give a pet (or if someone will let you, their pet) a massage. Like, a really great massage, one where the animal closes its eyes with contentment.
Look up at the sky multiple times today.
Take a deep breath. Then another.
Actually, go ahead and just meditate for a few minutes.
Plan your next vacation.
Put on a song and dance to it. Yes, like, REALLY dance to it.
Sing very, very loudly. Might I suggest something from this musical?
Sleep in (I know that I can’t readily do it these days, someone please do it for me).
Ask a friend if they’ve registered to vote. Ask a family member too, while you’re at it.
Write your local government official an email about something you care about.
Read a book, like this one.
Buy a book from a Black writer, POC, LGBTQ+... want recommendations? Ask me!
Draw something.
Sign a petition.
Buy someone a mask, maybe like this one.
Do a push-up. Or more, if you’re so inclined.
Follow an activist online.
Call a friend or family member.
Text a friend or family member.
Write a friend or family member a letter.
Say hello to a stranger.
Donate some money to a local organization.
Venmo someone some coffee money.
Look at pictures from National Geographic.
Subscribe to the digital edition of your local newspaper.
Tell people you love them.
Give someone a compliment.
Learn something new today. If you’re stuck, here’s a good article about bats and what they argue about.
Write down three things you’re glad you accomplished.
Say HI!