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27

That's how old you would be. 
27

I've realized this year that there will be times I can do something for your birthday and there will be years I can't. 
This is a can't year. 

And while that should make me feel guilty, I refuse to let it because I know exactly how I remember and honor you every day. It's visible to everyone, they just don't realize it. 

In the 2 years and 7 months since you've been gone, I given up a few things. I've accepted some things I wanted to avoid. I might as well face it all because after losing you, there is nothing left that could be more painful.

So, I gave up some stuff and accepted some stuff. 
But the surprising way is how that break, that shift, that canyon of change - showed up in my daily life. 
I bought the brightest, fun clothes. Just like I've always wanted to.
I started buying clothes that felt comfortable and lightened my mood. Lots of pink. And tons of cherries. 
It felt right.

Then it spilled over into the house. I bought art from the thrift store that made me smile or looked happy and fun. 

I bought a lamp on FB market place so I could spray paint it to look like a mushroom. Then I cut the cord off so it's simply decorative. And no where near perfect. 
I painted the kitchen bright yellow and put up cherry wallpaper. It doesn't exactly match, but it's fun. It felt right.

I grew pansies all winter and planted zinnias in the front flower bed this past summer. I did it because you said I couldn't. So I had to prove you wrong. 
The pansies had a long life and the zinnias are strong and tall. You would be so happy to be wrong. Yes, I've still killed a few other plants, but I'm also successful. It's a balance and I thrive on it. It felt right.

This new person that I am, this April that searches out, finds, and laughs loudly at the simple, small things in life without caring what everyone thinks now, that's you kiddo. You're everywhere. And that feels right.

I'm at this place because you are gone. And there is no greater pain than not having you here. I live with that every day. That's the part I can't make feel right.

This year,  your birthday feels quieter. And that's ok. It feels right this year.

Because on Monday, when I'm off to work or running errands, the crochet cherries hanging from the review mirror in the truck speak loudly of your absence. And so do the zinnias that are as tall as I am in the front yard. And the pink concrete sidewalk liners. And the cherry wallpaper in the kitchen. And the miniature mushrooms I glued on the basket. And the cherry earrings.
It feels right only because you are gone.
And that will always feel wrong.

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