Days of Birth

Today would have been my dad's eightieth birthday. Here he is with my mom on one of the happiest days of his life: the birth of his first grandchild (my oldest son).

He died nine months later, a week after he turned fifty-three. After all he'd done for me in his relatively short life, I was happy I had been able to provide him with that final gift.

This afternoon, Ringo the Wonder Retriever and I walked to the cemetery. I blew my dad a kiss and told him we missed him.

As I walked back home in the snow, I could almost hear him beside me, whistling a tune.

Who do you miss?