Happy birthday, Dad

I pulled up the last really good photo of you this morning and put it on my desktop -- you look so handsome in a suit, and your smile is as wide as a clear Texas sky. I've been doing pretty fine with the grief stuff, even imagined you smiling at me last week after the sonogram. But this morning, I miss you. I keep replaying our conversation that last Christmas, when you asked me if we were going to have a kid. I said, sure, but we'd just been married for a little over a year at that point and needed to keep getting used to the idea. You said you sure hoped you'd be around when the time comes, and I said "me, too, Dad." Me too, I said. Knowing in my heart you wouldn't be. I loved to see the delight your only granddaughter Lizzie took in you, and you in her -- all that love, without all the father-daughter BS we struggled against. I know you'd be even better at it with our child, having had some practice. Having been mellowed by your long, long battle with cancer, diabetes, emphysema, yourself. Having been your youngest girl. I know you're happy about our baby. I know you're with me. But I do wish you were here. I can see your giant paws holding my small hands, with the same sets of dimples over the knuckles. I'd love to see a teeny tiny one holding yours. Happy birthday, Daddy.