A Writer's Notebook, Day One-Thousand-Five-Hundred-And-Six

It is my Father's birthday, or it is the anniversary of his birthday, perhaps?  He was still born on December 10th, so I suppose it is still his birthday, even if he is not here for it.  He would have been seventy-four today.  It is almost six years since he died and the loss still feels so fresh.  I suppose that is not unusual, that it takes a long time for grief to mellow, if it ever does.  I wish I could visit him tonight, sit by his grave and feel I am keeping him company, but he was buried in New York and I am down here in Florida.  Besides, I think that the cemetery where he was buried does not admit visitors at night. 

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