Life Lessons: Afterlife Birthdays

My Dad passed away seven months ago and today is his birthday. Normally I would call him, and he would say, “Hi Sonni, how’s my little girl?” It’s still hard to believe there will be no call. Often, my brain can’t wrap itself around the idea, as though my Dad is golfing somewhere in Kamloops and waiting for me to come for a visit. I wish I had visited more. It was within weeks of his death that I knew I needed to do something sacred – something amazing –  on July 9. I needed to feel close to him. Machu Picchu’s crisp altitude and spiritual majesty seemed just to fit. And really, this whole trip has been about him, in one way or another. I’m searching for a life that doesn’t include him in the centre of it. An afterlife of my own. Canyoning down a waterfall; swimming with turtles; these are my first afterlife memories, and that’s exactly the way he wanted it. Unfathomably, I’m grateful yet. My Dad made me the person I am today, and even in death still guides me to make better decisions, to live generously in the present, and to grasp every opportunity before it passes by. The dull ache of missing him is persistent, but I’m even somehow thankful for the experience of losing him; because, it’s given me a confident sense of clarity and conviction. Papito, I miss you. I love you. I am going to live a life that you would be proud of, for both of us. Today is for you, Jesus Perez, the greatest person I’ve ever known. Happy birthday from Machu Picchu. xo. -S.

Dear Dad,

Today is your party.  The day where you wanted all your friends together, with music and tequila.  The day we tried to envision through tears and hugs from the kitchen island, in early November.  We came to an agreement that day, that you wanted everyone to smile, to laugh, and to be happy. And that you expected me to get very, very intoxicated.

I’m totally going to cry through my smile.

I miss you so, so, so much, and when I think of you being gone I’m filled with a dull emptiness.   How much longer do I have to wait for that gap to stop physically and aggressively forcing me to sit down with its heaviness? It hurts.

I’ve reached my cap of memories with you, but today, I get to share the ones I have with others. Dad, Papito, we will think of you happily, and we will dance and smile. That’s what you would do for us, and ultimately, you deserve happy kids.

But I’m not going to lie, I fucking miss everything that was you. What I wouldn’t give for just one more hug. I really hope we make you proud today, and that you are honoured in a way that you earned by living the gracious, loving, and inspiring life that you did.

We love you.