I was 1 years old during the summer of '77 when the birth of punk and hip hop took place in NYC. My mom was 17 and my dad was 20. Both of them young and full of promise. I grew up to art house, punk music, and early hip hop constantly playing in my home. My parents were into the underground music scene in the late 70s and early 80s and I benefited from it. Blondie was queen and The Ramones Lords of the Land! My musical tastes have such a wide range and I'm a plethora of useless information because of it. Today, my dad would have been 56 years old. He died February 5, 2007, exactly two weeks before my 31st birthday. It's been three and half years and I don't think...no, I know I haven't reached some tranquil state of mind about it. I'm still highly pissed off that the doctor's still don't know what virus attacked the muscles of his heart and caused him to die. I'm still bitter that because of his death, my Uncle Andy gave up his fight with cancer and died one month and one day later and that my grandmother couldn't stop mourning the death of her only son and died of cancer (that she didn't have when he was alive) one year one month and one day after him. It still hurts to look at pictures of him because my eyes burn with tears, my throat swells up and it takes me a minute to gather myself in front of people to continue speaking. I hate looking weak in front of people and his death still makes me feel like a lost and crying three year old. I wish with everything that I am that he was still here. Things would be different, or at least I'm under the belief that it would have been. But that could just be my little girl-like fantasy of still having my dad around. I was a complete daddy's girl. He was my rock to crash against when the weather got too rough. He was my buffer between my mom and I. I could always say the same thing to the both of them but it was as if my father had to translate it into something my mother could understand for her to get what I was saying. I guess that just a mother-daughter thing. He was always laughing at the most ridiculous things. Everyone has a story of him that starts with "Me and your father were out drinking and...(insert chaotic craziness and drunken hilarity here)". Even I had some stories like this. I know it's suppose to hurt less every day but what if it doesn't? What if this a constant hole in my heart that's never going to be filled no matter what I do? What if I can't get rid of this cold that surrounds me and keeps good men away? I know I'm lucky to have some good men in my life who are there for me as a father-figure like my dad's best friend from the time they were 8 and my godfather Victor, all my siblings' godfathers who were in that same 8 year olds group, my mom's current husband (who is spookily - I think I just made up that word! - enough like being around my dad) Tom but it's not the same as having him here.
I love you, Dad, and I miss you every day that you're not here! Happy birthday, Pops!
