I just noticed the date today (I manage blissful ignorance of the date most of the time).
November 13, 2003. My father would have been 73 today.
I miss him greatly even after 3 years. Perhaps I'm just not letting go, or I'm stuck in the past, or whatever, but I still feel dreadfully lonely when I remember he's gone. I keep his big ol' pick up truck because when I sit in it (even though I can't drive it) I can pretend he's with me. Why does it have to stab so? Why must I persist in feeling sorry for myself? (That's all it is, self-pity, and I don't really respect that.)
In any case, the best part is the mood passes quickly.
Happy birthday, Daddy. I miss you.