This is the third year that your birthday is here and you are gone.
I’ve been protecting myself all month from the date. Tonight, I looked at my phone, trying to figure out which day of the week it is, and by accident, I see the date. Your birthday is tomorrow. I had stopped counting the days in December, on purpose.
I start to cry. I don’t have a choice when your birthday will hit me.
I do have a choice what I do with the pain.
I give it to Jesus and a happy memory pushes its way to the top.
I see you walk into the Cajun Boiling Pot where I am hosting karaoke.
I see you standing on the stage with a James Dean/Bob Dylan attitude, the microphone in one hand, one hand in your pocket.
It was the weekend of your 21st birthday, December, 1999.
You can’t sing worth a lick, but you don’t know that, so you have an awesome time up there and I love watching and listening to you. You surprise me when you sing, “Summer Wind,” by Frank Sinatra.
I try to get you to sing with me, but you wisely say, no way, probably because I’m famous for being off key.
Before the night is over, you get me to do something I swore I would never do. I eat a whole pile of crawdads with you.
I am thrilled when you dedicate a song to me, “You never even call me by my name,” by David Allan Coe. That was our song that we sang in my car when you were a teenager. You were into rap, and I was into country, and he was our compromise.
I see you, young and handsome standing on that stage, that crooked grin that you got from your father on your face, as you pour yourself into the music. Every girl in the room has their eyes on you and they don’t care if you can sing.
Thank you, Jesus. I cried out to you and you sent me a happy birthday memory.
Forever 44
Richard William McClellan, Jr.
12-29-78~04-18-23
Women Who Think Too Much by Jeanne Marie 