No Paraskevidekatriaphobia Here

I would like to thank my dear friend T for her post on the recent familial losses suffered by a friend of hers. It prompted me to realize (with that universal "Oopshit" gasp that accompanies, for example, accidentally deleting a document you've worked on for days, with no chance of recovering it) that I unwittingly overlooked a date that is quite personal and very important to me.

I forgot my father's birthday. It was October 13th, a day gleefully prone to fall on that superstitious standard, Friday the 13th. All the moreso reprehensible that I forgot it this year, since it actually did fall on the Witches' Sabbath.

I should mention that my father passed away in 1993, at the tender age of 50. My mother and I were devastated, and we found that the dynamics of our relationship changed drastically, but to our benefit. My mother became the friend and mentor to me that she'd always tried to be when I was young. My father's passing made me grow up enough to recognize her for the incredible woman that she had always been, and will always be. And for that, I am a better person.

My father's birthday instilled a certain comfort within me concerning the number 13, and all things associated with it. I was comfortable enough with Friday the 13th, in fact, that I was married on that special day in the summer of 2003. In the rain. To a man I am now divorcing. Perhaps I should have been a little more respectful of this particular superstition.

Yet, my father still manages to comfort me and guide me, even though he isn't physically here. In a way, it's a good thing that I forgot his birthday this year. My forgetfulness tells me that I am maturing, and that my father trusts me to make the right decisions without deferring to his opinion first.

I miss you, Dad. Happy Birthday.