It’s that time of the year again. The time when I miss wishing my dad a very very happy birthday. When I can’t remain awake to either pick up the phone to wish him or break into his room with a cake singing out loud “happy birthday to you” at sharp midnight.
It’s again that time of the year when I force myself to work late night so that I don’t think of him much. So that the heart doesn’t long to hear him one more time. So that I don’t finally go to bed with moist eyes and heavy heart.
It’s that time of the year when I feel the cold wind caressing my hair. Moon looking haze as the fog sets in. The faint yellow of the street lights play hide and seek with the trees that line the avenue.
It’s that time of the year when there is an eerie calm. I stand in darkness near the window tucking my hands deep inside my pockets braving the cold. The cold wind starts to pick up, my hair flowing all over my face. I take my hands out in a bid to fix the flowing hair. The fingers feel the cold instantly. Goosebumps. But is it merely the cold? I break my trot abruptly and look back. Nothing. The chill down my spine desperately wants to see a figure behind myself. As if I need the figure right here at this point in time. The dry wind almost instantly blow away the slight trickle of moisture at the corner of my eye.
It’s that time of the year again. When it’s too cold to cry. It’s too cold inside.
It’s that time of the year again. When I wish you a very very happy birthday Dad. Stay happy where ever you are.