This is not my happiest hour.
I thought about that, break lights in front of me all the way home tonight. I thought about whether that was a good thing, a bad thing, or just a true thing. This is not your happiest hour, I told myself. It just isn’t.
Friday, when the better part of the East Coast shuffles off to Happy Hour, you will be thinking about a girl in a room with a green sparkling leotard on, knees dry and cracking, palms sweaty, hair curling at the roots. You will think of her standing in a room, learning for the first time that she’s lost someone she deeply cares about, and you’ll pause. Wherever you are, at 7pm on Friday night, you will remember Friday, December 12, 2003. Friday, December 12, 2003. The perfect date – 12.12.03. 1+2 = 3. 1+2 = 3. You will be obsessed with dates and times, adding and subtracting them, and so, at thirteen, the perfect date will feel a lot less perfect.
I used to think I could only ever be angry, could only ever be sad. I had to gear myself up. I had to get real mad at God every year when I scrolled through the Facebook status updates, the photographs, all of us remembering a man who meant so much to us. To a group of girls in leotards.
Then, last summer, I met somebody who made me realize that might not be true. She had lost her daughter, decades ago, and each year, she remembered her. In the middle of her three boys, there was a girl, and I imagine she was beautiful, and full of life. I imagine it hurt like hell to lose her. It’s been years and years, and she still remembers, still makes a note to reflect, to say something about it, on her daughter’s birthday and the day she died.
For a while, I wondered if we stop. If we pause, and take a trash can, and empty our past into it, sit it out on the curb, and let our new relationships be untainted by what happened years ago. But we are who we are because a girl in a dress or a man in blue wind pants and a white polo helped us be a better person, for years and years after we lost them.
I was thirteen then. I lost my faith. I cried loud at his funeral, until my lungs ran out of breath, until my eyes ran out of tears. I cried through a full pack of tissues. Because I thought something monumental was happening – something was over. And it was, but something else would forever be beginning because of it.
My dreams continued, I pushed onward because he had always believed in me, I carried his lessons with me from team to team, from job to job, I paused on dark days and thought of him, his hope for me, his patience with me, and I knew I was blessed, for a short time in such a crucial stage of my life, to know a man who gave me wings when I didn’t believe I would ever be good enough to fly. He taught me that: we are all good enough to fly, even when we don’t see it ourselves.
And with that, I know, there is time yet for my happiest hour.