Today is my Pawpaw’s birthday.
Almost twelve years have passed since we lost him, and that number still surprises me. You’d think time would sand the edges down more than it has. It does soften some things—the sharpest ache, the shock of realizing he’s gone—but it never erases him. Not really. Not the way someone like Pawpaw could ever disappear.
There are days when I don’t think about him much at all, and then there are days like today when he feels right there. In the pauses. In the memories that show up uninvited. In the garden when the sun warms my face and it feels like one of his hugs. In the way I still catch myself wishing I could tell him something small and ordinary, just to hear what he’d say.
What I miss most isn’t one single moment or story. It’s the steadiness of him. The feeling that no matter what was going on in the world, Pawpaw was solid and safe and exactly who he’d always been. He didn’t need to be loud to be influential. He didn’t need to say much to say enough. Just being Pawpaw was more than sufficient.
Grief this far out looks different than it used to. It’s quieter. It doesn’t knock the wind out of me the way it once did. But it’s persistent in a gentle way, like a low hum that never fully goes silent. I miss him when something good happens. I miss him when life feels heavy. I miss him when my roses bloom and remind me of him. I miss him when I laugh at something and think, he would’ve loved that.
Birthdays have a way of doing that—of reopening doors you didn’t realize were still unlocked. Today isn’t sad exactly, but it’s tender. It’s a reminder that love doesn’t expire just because someone does. Almost twelve years later, Pawpaw is still part of who I am, still woven into my life in ways time can’t undo.
Happy birthday, Pawpaw. You are still missed. Still loved. Always remembered.
Blessings y’all – Amy
