Tomorrow would be his birthday, the second we celebrate without him.
And though time moves forward with its relentless pace, there are days when absence feels like a dense shadow, like a distant echo that breaks suddenly in my chest.
I cannot deny that the void of his presence is real—tangible—a hollow space carved into every corner of my soul.
His laughter, warm and playful, the kind that used to fill the silence of our days, now survives only as a memory that slips through my fingers like water spilling from a broken glass.
All that remains are the smiles trapped in photographs—frozen fragments of a time that no longer exists—and memory itself, sometimes vivid and alive like a landscape never forgotten, sometimes blurred and uncertain, like the contours of a dream I can no longer clearly recall.
I remember his voice, and when I do, I feel that wave of safety only he could bring—the kind that lived inside his embrace.
Memories of my childhood rise, at times so clear that I can almost feel his presence beside me, as if he might speak, as if his hand still rested on my shoulder, steady and kind.
Other memories fade, as though time had softened their edges, but the essence remains intact—a melody that never stops playing beneath everything I am.
From the distance of his absence, in the quiet of night, I feel him near when I write.
It’s a presence unseen, yet undeniable.
I close my eyes, and, for a moment, the world disappears—and I’m once again in his arms, held in the calm only he could offer, in that peace he alone could give when sorrow drowned me.
A deep contradiction overtakes me, because missing him feels foreign, strange—like a new wound I never imagined could hurt this deeply.
It’s as if some part of me still refuses to understand that he’s no longer here—that I can no longer call him, no longer hear his voice, that voice which was always my refuge, my anchor.
In moments like these, my hand, almost by instinct, reaches for the phone—as if dialing his number could summon back peace, could bring back the certainty that he’s there, waiting for me, just as he always did.
But then reality hits with its merciless truth, and I remember—he’s no longer in this world.
And sadness folds around me, heavy and wordless.
Tomorrow is his birthday—another in the growing line of days since he left.
And though life carries on, something in me pauses—as if time itself stops for a breath, honoring his departure, yet acknowledging the mark he left upon each of us.
And even as sorrow overtakes me, there’s a faint light within this memory—a quiet knowing that despite his absence, his essence still lives within me:
in my thoughts,
in every word I write,
in every imagined embrace
that reaches me
from the other side.
April 27, 2025, Calgary, AB
5:20 AM
✨ Thank you for reading this reflection on April 27 of every year. Writing helps me cope with grief and remembrance, and your presence here reminds me that love never leaves us— it only changes its form.
Read more about grief and memory → Rest in Peace My Life Partner or Mirror and Wound