Dust to Dust.

Today I turn 31 years old.

Today marks one year since Papa passed away.

I still haven’t found the proper way to cope with the strangeness of sharing my birthday with the loss of someone I love. The combination of the words “happy” and “birthday” directed my way is so odd to me right now (though of course I still appreciate the well wishes). It just doesn’t feel right to celebrate on a day of remembrance.

I’m still sad. I teared up yesterday when my grandma called me and the caller ID still reads “Grandma and Papa - Home.” I miss hearing him call me “Kitty Caiti” and the way he’d jokingly ask Mark what his name was every single time we came for a visit over the past 10 years. I miss his stubbornness, the vocabulary that was all his own, his inappropriate comments, and the way his eyes crinkled up when he laughed. My heart hurts with regret that I happened to be out to dinner toasting to 30 years of life instead of being with him in his final moments.

So, on a day meant for celebration, gratitude, and marvel at the beauty of the human experience, I now also grieve. Birth and death. Love and loss. Pleasure and suffering. It’s the cycle of life, really. And as someone who never hesitates to try to make meaning out of the difficulties life presents, I know I’ll someday come to appreciate this truth that’s now an inescapable part of my story. There’s beauty in the pain of loss: it wouldn’t exist if my heart wasn’t full enough with love to crack and splinter. It’s a reminder to live life wholeheartedly, to be resilient, to be dedicated to your family, and enjoy every day, which was all Papa could wish for his children and grandchildren. And I do love my life-- every messy, inspired, broken, joyful, beautiful, maddening part of it.

With teary eyes, I say cheers to 31, and cheers to a life well lived.