My father died when I was just 11 months old. Today would have been his 62nd birthday.
It’s an odd kind of sadness to miss someone you’ve never known. That is not to say that I ever missed having a father in my life. On the contrary, I grew up with a wonderful dad. My mom’s second husband adopted me when I was 5 and had been a true father to me ever since. But that will never negate the desire to know my first father and the lingering questions of What If.
He loved daffodils, and perhaps due to an innate preference or my constant quest to find him in myself, they also happen to be my favorite flower.
Happy Birthday Dad. I love you, always.