I’d just flown in at 2 am after two months of working constantly, culminating in the trip from hell. I knew I would be home on his birthday but I didn’t have any spare clockticks to even think about it until I’d shrugged off my work responsibilities (maybe forever: it was that hard).
Once I was home, I just couldn’t talk about it to anybody. 18 months now and I still can’t address my issues with anybody relevant in my life.
He would have been 53 yesterday. I wonder if his birthday, seeing down all the days of my life, will always be like this for me.