(originally written Monday, November 8, 2021)

I hate my birthday.

It has nothing to do with aging. Part of me longs to have that next 2 1/2 years under my belt so that I can seriously consider retirement.

No. I hate my birthday because next week will be the first time in 25 years that Faith will not be here to celebrate it with me. Faith will not be here to shower me with thoughtful little gifts, and at least one big one that she spent too much money on. Faith will not be here to sing Happy Birthday. Faith will not be here to bake me a cake, or make sure I get my favorite meal. Faith will not be here to make the day special.

I’m sure my sister will call to sing and wish me a happy birthday, though I would be perfectly content to treat the day the same as any other, no big deal, get up go to work make it through the day and come home…

I have friends who won’t allow me to NOT celebrate. They’ve promised to take me out for Taco Tuesday. We’ll go to Andele’s Doghouse and I’ll get my favorite, pork tacos al carbon. And I’m sure I’ll enjoy the evening, and we’ll talk and laugh and share a meal together.

But there will be an underlying current of melancholy, of aloneness, of grief. Faith will not be there. Only her memory will be present. It isn’t enough.

It isn’t enough.

In the past, I’ve anticipated my birthday as the onset of the holidays. Thanksgiving comes the following week, and then we are launched into the Christmas season with all the decorations, the baking and cooking, the music and movies, the friends and fellowship, the parties, the love – oh! the love!

But Faith is gone. I will be alone Christmas Eve night, quite possibly for the very first time in my life. There will be no one else here when I wake up Christmas morning. No Christmas stockings, lovingly stuffed, hanging from the mantle. No cup of coffee or tea while Christmas music plays and we take turns opening gifts with child-like excitement. No dancing around the house to The Clancy Brothers singing Buala Bas (Jingle Bells in Gaelic!). No joy, no fun.

No Faith.

Yes, I will go to my good friend and neighbor’s house for a waffle breakfast and fellowship, and later she will come here for dinner and cookie decorating and movies. The day will be full – once I get beyond that initial shock of alone. But the grief will be present.

Faith will not be here.

And then comes the New Year. Without Faith. Alone.I will survive the holidays. I will get through. I will call for help if it becomes overwhelming. I will grow, I will proceed on my journey of discovery, of learning who I am when not half of we. And life will go on.

And there will be an underlying current of melancholy, of aloneness, of grief. Faith will not be here. Only her memory will be present. It isn’t enough.

It just isn’t enough.

I hate my birthday.