Birthday and Deathday

Today would have been Dad's seventy-sixth birthday, had he not died quietly during a nap on the 1991 winter solstice.

If I live as long as he did, I will die on 20 September 2027. Sometimes that seems unimaginably distant. (It is, after all, the next millennium.) On other days it seems like Monday after next.

For today, I look into an grey sky, imagine and remember. I miss my father.