The Winds and Birthday Wishes

I want him to feel winds.

Every type of wind. 

Winds strong enough to knock him down, 

ferocious enough to rip the roofs off of buildings.

Winds so gentle that they cannot whip away 

the heat of the sun and his neck grows red. 

Winds hot and cold.

Beating his face and cracking his knuckles. 

I want him to feel more winds

than his father ever did 

or could. 

Oklahoma straight-line winds

and the warm sunrise coastal winds of Florida,

winds that stream through Tennessee hollers

and bend the stalks of corn in the flatlands of Illinois. 

All of these different places 

that flow through the blood of his roots.

Winds to knock the cap off his head

and mess up his blond hair. 

Speaking loud 

because the winds are louder.

I want him to curse the winds,

just like I had taught him

before remembering that I blessed 

these beautiful winds

in the same breath. 

It is such a amazing gift to get to be here

breathing in these winds. 

Squinting his eyes as red dirt gets whipped into his face,

he peruses,

he persists

to find the next place

to feel the winds

and remember me there

and all the winds that his father never got to feel.

_____________________

In 20 years,

my son will go to bed 26

and wake up 27. 

Older than his father was ever able to be. 

The pictures from his first birthday, 

taken on antiquated smartphones,

will look grainy and vintage.

A time from long ago.

My face 

will act as a constant reminder

to never

accept

unjust pain. 

His father’s face 

will act as a constant reminder

to not

give in

and to

keep

growing

older. 

_____________________

Sweet boy,

only four, 

asked me for a new dad

and a little sister.

Sweet boy,

now five,

told me he prays to God

everyday

for a new dad

and a little sister. 

Sweet boy

growing older,

blows out his six candles

and says he wishes for

a new dad

and a little sister.

I weep,

I ache,

I want him to have those things.

Just two things. 

That’s all he wants.

He’d trade in his tractors 

and his ride on trucks

just for those two things. 

“What does H want for his birthday?”

Something we can’t give him.

Sweet boy,

only six,

who wants a new dad

and a little sister.

_____________________

Author's note: I'm not sure if I ever mentioned it here, but I have a son. He turns six in a few weeks. H. He’s a great boy, likes tractors and farming and being outside. He wears tank tops in the summer with his cowboy boots that are always covered in mud. He clings to his grandfather's hip and if we go out of the house for too long, he complains about missing his grandma.

H’s father, my ex-husband, took his own life on February 25th, 2023. I hope none of you ever have to tell your sweet child that their parent is dead and then have to explain to them the concept of death.

It’s not fair. 

“Daddy got sick.” I think that’s the verbiage I used. Which, honestly, really has bitten us in the ass because now whenever someone gets sick H gets extremely attentive and, he won’t ever show it, but he’s worried.

We had a family friend who had a stroke last December right before Christmas. He died on Christmas Eve. A loving father and husband and friend. A healthy man who played tennis every week and only ate organic vegetables. Not fair at all. We were riding in the car on our way home and my dad and I were talking about him. H heard and he asked what happened. We said, “He got sick.” 

“Oh,” he said in his soft, sweet voice. “just like my daddy.”

Yes, baby, like your daddy. I started crying, not to let H see. My dad held my hand. 

It’s just not fair. 

That these children are now a part of this terrible statistic.

The “Dead Dad’s Club”. 

It’s just not fucking fair.