Today is the day, everyone. The day we celebrated Dad's birthday with him for 56 years. It's the anniversary of the moment he was brought onto this planet. It marks the exact start of when my life's footprint took shape. What a momentous occasion.
How do we celebrate someone after they're gone? Are you intended to be sad today? Do you not acknowledge it? Do we pretend that it's just another day? ....not if you're a Carpenter. We take this huge event and boil it down to its essence.
Basically, this means we got (what I call) Dead Dad Cake. We forced a bakery worker to write something ridiculous on it. And we impulse bought.
Sums Dad up in such an eloquent way. We had dessert. We bought things. We were smart asses. And we made a random stranger uncomfortable. Yup, his spirit is still alive.
You may remember Dead Dad Cake from last year's entry: Full of Jive. And any of you who remember Jim can recall him singing along to basically everything. We won't relive the time I walked into his kitchen while he was singing "This shit is bananas, b-a-n-a-n-a-s" while he was scrubbing the stove. I won't even mention the time he couldn't hear me yelling for him to come in, at my house. Why? Because when I finally opened the front door he had his iPod on and his earphones in while singing "Miss Independent" by Kelly Clarkson. This makes his Taylor Swift inspired cake fitting.
I tried to get the bakery lady to write "Haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate." After a few words of encouragement that included "Listen, it's my Dad's birthday and he's dead" - we settled on this. She did, however, try to include proper grammar and make it say "Haters are going to hate."
As much as I am not a TSwift fan, Shake it Off is an appropriate theme. People seem to make you feel as if you should shake off a day like today. Just take it in stride. This is officially my second Dead Dad Birthday - and you can't shake it off. Trust me, you would if you could. If a grieving person could shake off that feeling of sadness - they would. Who wouldn't fill the empty spot in their heart, given the option? The grief, we could all do without. The remembering? I wouldn't change that for the world. So when my sister asked if I wanted to go to the pet store? I was ready.
We went to look at fish. Our parents owned a pet store that specialized in tropical fish. There was (and still is) little to nothing they didn't know about owning, caring for, and loving your fish as pets. Which may lend itself to explain why I walked out with a fish tank well beyond the scope of the tiny beta tank with Toothless, the Dragon Beta as its lone inhabitant.
As my sister and mother helped me set up the tank this evening, we were happy. We talked about what fish to put in, our favorite fish throughout the fish store's existence.It's sad that Dad wasn't there. But the afternoon and evening flew by. And now I have a lovely reminder of today. Of my father. Of my mother and father's knowledge. A remembrance of their love for fish and the calmness a good fish tank can bring to someone. And that, even when I'm an adult - I will need them to teach me. To remind me of things. To tell me "stop spilling water" even.
The tank is empty for now, as the water waits for the right temperature and pH balance to move its new tenants in. But I type this now, from my bed. The light is on. It looks amazing, thus far. And the small quiet noise the filter is making is a near-silent but ever present reminder that I can't shake it off - but I can remember the beautiful moments and all that my father taught me. Not just about fish. But about being strong, remaining resilient, never giving up, and mainly - not to put more than one male beta in a tank - unless we're running a gambling ring.
Don't shake it off, when you have grief. That's my advice for you. Especially if it's because others make you feel as if you should. Instead, dig deep - find a way to make that grief work for you. Don't always go buy a fish tank, however. They're expensive.
