I woke up at 8 a.m. this morning (hey, sleeping late IS one of the few perks of this freelancer), greeted by — silence. I got up, took my dog, Kosmo, outside — more silence. I fixed a slice of toast and choked it down.
Of course I KNEW it wouldn’t, but I couldn’t restrain that tiny part of me buried deep inside that kept listening for the telephone to ring. You see, it had rung on this date, June 2, for the past I-don’t-know-how-many years, usually operating as my alarm, the wake-up call to my birthday. And on the other end, a raspy, uneven, unimaginably off-tune voice would greet me: “Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to YEWWW! Happy Birthday dear Shelly, Hap-pee Birth-Day … to … You-eww!”
“Hi, Dad,” I would usually mumble, while half-smiling, half rolling my eyes. Sometimes the conversations wouldn’t last more than a few minutes. He’d ask me what I had planned, confirm that I’d received the card that he or Mom had sent (usually with a check in it) … and then always end the call the same way: “I love you.”
The older I got, strangely, the more I looked forward to my birthday morning serenades … and the parting “I love you.” I guess that’s partly because I don’t think my dad told me he loved me until I was well into my 20s … maybe even my 30s. But the older he (well, we) got, the more frequently we both said it.
I said “I love you” to my dad for the last time on April 11, minutes before he took his last breath. I’d been with him, at home in Kansas with Mom, for a week. I thought I’d told him everything I “should” tell him, everything that I “needed” to tell him. Everyone had been reminding me: You don’t want to have any regrets; be sure to tell him how much he means to you.
I did that — absolutely, I did. But how can you remember to say everything? Everything that is in your heart, some of it tucked into little corners so far in the back that you forgot it was there? Forgot, until you wake up the morning of your 48th birthday, and the overwhelming silence of the phone reminds you?
A dear friend told me tonight that he was sure my dad had still serenaded me today — I just couldn’t hear him.
But, I did — the words he sang so many times, in such a pathetically bad key, resounded throughout my soul much of the day. How sweet the sound, Dad. Oh, how sweet your sound.
