Today would have been my dad’s eightieth birthday. Happy birthday, Dad.
I wonder if I ever did wish him happy birthday, face to face. Perhaps not, he went to join the ancestors a few weeks before my sixth birthday and I have only shadow memories of him. It’s been a constant yet too easily ignored shame for me that I’ve not visited his grave, even though it’s quite close (assuming it hasn’t been removed to the local ossuary). Time to fix that.
Time remains fluid but unidirectional, without the fun of the timey-wimey, and I don’t think I’d care to be other than what and who I am. But in a strange otherworldly dream it would be disturbingly exciting to see my alternate self, in a life where he didn’t journey beyond so young. But who would part the yarn spun by the wyrd sisters, and in a breath eliminate all that is, for something that could have been? Not I.