Some people love celebrations,
and I’m one of them. I’m a birthday person, a Christmas person. I even have a reminder
on my phone marking the anniversary of moving into my home. I enjoy the
opportunity these events afford me to pause, reflect, and plan.

Some anniversaries don’t need a
little cross on the calendar, though. They are cemented in your memory, wedged
in somewhere between your ID number and the colour of your first love’s eyes. For
me, this is the date that my father left (this) earth. I approach 27 July with
mixed feelings, the sum total of which I can only describe as grief.

Grief is missing your dad, but
being happy that he isn’t suffering. It’s remembering silly inside jokes, but
forgetting his scent. Feeling thankful for a life that was lived fully yet
imperfectly, while also experiencing anger at the thought of all the…