Twice a year I have the same thought. Granted I am sure that thought crosses my mind, lightly and almost as a whisper throughout the rest of the year. But twice a year, it yells loudly through the hollows of my skull. Echoing between my ears, almost painfully, intrusively, a lost memory of something that was never there in the first place. And it tells me that we’ll never dance again.

Ever since I was little, I dreamed of that day where I wore the prettiest dress, walked the longest road between the trees and stars, towards the greatest Faerietale of my life. I lived for the moments of the words and the kisses and the photographs. I could smell the flowers, feel the smiles and hear the music in my head. But the moment I knew, in my heart, that I would keep forever, was when you told me how proud of me you were. That you would one last time, give me away, to be on my own, as a fully grown woman. You would hug me and we would sway and you would sing, in that off key way, the song you had been singing me since I was a little girl. And it would be perfect.

But that will never happen.

That moment was stolen from me.

Twice.

The first time because you let me down.

You weren’t even there. To a place that wasn’t real in so many ways. Tne day was wrong. The partner was wrong. The place. The emotion. The words. Even the marriage certificate was wrong. Three times. But you weren’t there. The music wasn’t there. And it ended in vomit and heartbreak. And an I told you so. Yes, yes you did.

And look at where we are now. 17 years later. Queer. Single-ish. Listening to Whitney Houston, and writing you this letter. While you stand watch over me. Silently, coldly, as you do everyday. Everyday for the past three and a half years. Because you’re just gone. Snap. In an instant. Though it was the longest instant. And it still feels like disbelief. And it’s the spring, so the thoughts come back.

Will I ever again.

The dress, the aisle, the vows, the flowers, the music.

But there will be no dance.

There will be no moment.

You won’t be there.

Again.

And I don’t mean to be mad, but I am. And this time you didn’t choose thing. But it still isn’t fair. I mean for all intensive purposes, I could dance with you. But that’s morbid and would probably upset a lot of people. But I will make sure you’re there. Even though, I don’t know it will happen. Ever. So I guess, if you want to help with that, maybe that’s better than a dance?

Anyway, today I will dance for you.

For us.

And have cake. Because you loved cake.

Happy Birthday in Heaven Daddy

Love your Punkin