My father would have celebrated his 66th birthday this week.
A milestone like this would have not gone without a cookout – probably at my aunt Dee Dee’s. Or maybe his softball team would have rented the back room of one of the lounges on the Eastside – the kind where the real OG’s sip Hennessy and age ever so slowly. Either way, a lit affair for the man known as “T” would have been had.
I don’t think I would have been invited.
There was no malice between us. No huge blowup. Our relationship rotted from time and silence, because we didn’t know how to tell the other what we needed.
He lived his life, and I am living mine, learning as I go. It would be nice to be able to think about some great piece of advice he gave me, or laugh about how he’d try to flirt with my fiancee.
But today is one of those days that I wish that I could feel more. But we didn’t give each other much to miss.
