Happy birthday Justin. I’m missing you so much tonight. Wish I could bake you a cake… In the grocery store tonight I found myself in the bake aisle–I don’t eat sugar or flour anymore, you wouldn’t like that–and it sliced me that I wanted to make you a birthday cake, and add all the candles… And you’re not here for that, which sucks.
I wonder about your life–how it would have been, this year.
I know tomorrow will be special, it always is, every year. You gift me now, hobbit-style. Meanwhile, here I am, riding the wave. It comes so rarely now.
I love you my son. Happy birthday. Shine on bluebird, be free 😘😘😘
I am from the sweaty track jerseys
and smelly track shoes.
Tired muscles and over worked bodies,
Hard breathing that only comes from hard work.
I am from the sweet smelling mountain peaks of Colorado,
the dusty windswept deserts in Arizona
to the salty shores of Alaska.
I am from the neatly cut grass in
my backyard to the hammock
hanging between two trees.
The lonely rake that stands alone
against the wall, forgotten by
those who used it last.
I am from the cold lakes that gradually warm in the summer,
to the boats that gently rock in the gentle breeze blowing from the south.
To the fish that play in the shadows of the trees, and the crawfish that make their homes under the rocks.
I am from the fruit trees spilling over with ripe fruit calling out to
be picked by young hands
to the boys sitting, laughing on the fence posts, watching the cotton candy clouds
float by in that endless blue sky.
I am from the wheat fields that
gently sway in the summer wind
the sweat that comes in from cutting wood all day under a blazing sun.
I am from the “Go on, do something outside” type of family that raised me so well.
I am from the deer spaghetti, overflowing
With rich red sauce, to the traditional wild turkey that we eat on thanksgiving.
The wild salmon that we catch off of the river and smoke up at the lodge for the guests to enjoy for their dinner.
This is who I am.
September 27, 1989 – January, 24, 2006 😢