Today, Ian would have been 37. If he were still here, I’d likely still be in bed at the moment. 50/50 odds on whether I’d be in mine or his. That would have depended on many factors. I would have taken the day off of work so that I could chauffeur him around, and we would spend the day at the Nitty Gritty, going out to eat, and playing Rock Band until the sun came up tomorrow.
As it is, it’s been 123 days since his death, and I’m at work, preparing for two weeks off, and planning on going to bed very early because I’ve got to get up at something like 2am for a long day.
I hope that he still exists somewhere, and that today he’s happier than he’d been for as long as I knew him. I hope he’s at peace and mentally healthy. I hope his parents are ok today. His lifelong friends. Me? I’m sad. I am doing better than I was afraid I’d be doing. Still sad. Still crying easily. But I have things I have to do, and that’s helpful for distraction.
Happy birthday, Ian. I miss you, you turkey.
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