Happy Birthday, Dad.

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  1. It was his 55th birthday. Maybe not the actual day, but days kind of roll into each other as they merge with the twilight of the years they make up. But it was the month of his 55th birthday. Definitely the month. My Father. Grizzled from bike rides and too many stories of lives not lived. Much like his own. 

    We stood together under an ink-blue sky. Waiting.
    "When will they come?"
    "Soon, Gráinne."

    We waited some more.
    "It's cold, Dad."
    "I know. But it's worth the wait. Seeing those lines of light come down? It's worth it."
    "Why, Dad?"
    "Why what, Gráinne?"
    "Why is it worth it?"

    I was 14 during this exchange by the way.

    "You realise a lot. Mostly, you realise....."
    "What, Dad?"

    He (almost) put his arm around me. Then I realised as I felt his hand on my head he had returned to the house to grab a coat to rest on my shoulders. I had been staring at the sky, transfixed, waiting for his answer. Waiting for the Perseids to fall. Staring into the space. You lose track of time.

    "Nothing Gráinne. Just wait. It'll be worth it."
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