today would have been your birthday, mom, and that sentence feels like a bad administrative notice stamped across my chest. almost one year ago, i lost you, and now the calendar is acting smug, like grief is some scheduled compliance deadline. people say, “she is still with you,” and i understand the sentiment, but sometimes it sounds like cheap wallpaper over a cracked wall. you are not here. that is the fact. the chair is empty, the phone does not ring, and the kitchen has stopped smelling like the soap you liked. i hate how precise loss becomes. hospice notes, medication logs, vital signs, discharge language, and the final quiet all turn love into documentation. it is efficient, clinical, and honestly a little rude.

i remember your last birthday. i bought the wrong candles, because i was distracted and pretending everything was normal. you laughed, called me hopeless, and still kept the reciept folded in your purse like evidence in a harmless case file. that was very you. practical, sentimental, and annoyingly observant. i also remember the hospital hallway, the fluorescent lights, the nurse explaining “comfort measures,” and me nodding like i understood anything beyond panic. grief has its own operating system. it runs in the background, drains the battery, and interrupts ordinary tasks without permission. i can be buying bread and suddenly feel like some internal alarm has been triggered. damn it, i miss you. not in a poetic way. in a physical, inconvenient, blood-pressure-spiking way.

for balance, i will admit you were not perfect. nobody is, and pretending otherwise feels lazy. you could be stubborn, sharp, and impossible when you decided you were right. i inherited some of that, unfortunately, so congratulations on the successful transfer of assets. but you loved fiercely, and that matters more than the flaws. “what is grief, if not love persevering?” sounds polished, almost too polished, but today i understand it more than i want to. happy birthday, mom. i love you. i am angry that you are gone, grateful that you existed, and tired of acting dignified about something this brutal. i hope wherever you are, there is cake, strong coffee, and nobody asking stupid questions.

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