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I wrote a blog this day last year. It was the first year that I hadn’t heard your voice on my birthday, but I couldn’t submit it. I sat at my computer writing to you, tears pooling in my eyes, but I just deleted it line-by-line until I was staring at the blinking cursor. I was newly pregnant, and I made a conscious decision to focus on the life growing inside me rather than my life without you.

I have now celebrated two birthdays since you passed.  Another year older, and I am slowly catching up to the age that you were when you died.  What a surreal concept to try and grasp.  I have spent my entire life trying to “age faster” and catch up to whatever you were doing… and soon, I will simply surpass your last birthday.

On my birthday, I love hearing all of our family’s voices calling and now their simple texts.  The silly tradition, that I have no idea how it began, has become something that we all take for granted. Every year, I would wait for your call. Sometimes, you would cut it down to the wire, but you never missed a birthday, and I always heard your voice.

The actual family members calling on birthdays has slowly dwindled.  Fewer calls are received, and those absences are reminders of all that we have lost. We don’t get to hear Grandpa’s singing, or in later years, Gram’s whispers. We don’t get to hear Aunt Elaine’s voice, usually rushed but always at an un-godly hour in the morning… and I don’t get to hear you.

Last year, every time the phone rang, I would glance at the screen hoping to see your name appear, and every time, it was a painful reminder that you couldn’t call anymore. This year, I know that I won’t stop the ingrained reflex of looking at the phone and hoping it is you, but instead of letting it crush me, I have decided that I will simply bring you with me.

Although you will no longer age, you can come with me as I quickly encroach 30. For every call I receive, WE will endure our family (the majority of which can’t hold a tune) sing their renditions of “Happy Birthday.” You will be with me when Nathan wakes up giggling and yelling, “Hi Da-Da,” (yes, I know I lost that battle). You will be the third wheel when Justin and I go to dinner, and I will share my glass of wine with you.

Dearest David: From now on, on my birthday, I will make a toast to life; to the life you had, the life you inevitably lost, and the life I will continue to fully live for the both us.