Thirty seven.

My birthday again. I hate my birthday. I really don't care about growing older. That's just fine. And it's not so bad anymore but three years ago I completely ignored my birthday.nwondered how I could ever have a happy birthday again. And while it's true, it's also not completely true. I can be happy again. I enjoyed the leaves that are always beautiful on my birthdays going for a little drive to enjoy them. But it's the darkest time right now. There are no memories of Eva at this time of year. She never got to see the leaves change colour or eat even one bite of my birthday cake, and I feel sad.

And this year it seemed to hit me harder. How just missing she is. How forever not here she is. The longing, it never ends. 

I bought myself a cake and, as I do every year, I put the candles on my cake. One for each of my precious children. I blew them out and wished the impossible wish...then we relit them and the kids got one on each of their slices. It was fun and it was nice that Eva's candle was lit. But, man, as she gets older I almost miss her more, if that's even possible. The little almost four year old who would be totally into cake.

So without further ado...happy birthday to me.

Getting old...a privilege denied to many.