Forever 78

My Momma said he would’ve made waffles. Maybe even pancakes. For me, he would have made French toast. So today, I made French toast and I’ll probably always make French toast on his day. It was his recipe. It’s simple and elegant like all of his bakes. The classics. The ones you gotta know how to bake to really make. The ones that need no recipe because it’s ingrained.

Tonight I’m making a coconut cake. I made every excuse to not make one. When I relive the moment I last made one, I think of how my daddy had to use both hands to push the knife through those beautifully stiff three layers. The worst part was when I took it out of the oven in the wee hours of the morning my only thought was hmm this feels heavy. Note, an angel cake should never feel heavy. Maybe it was desperation or just exhaustion, but I went with it. Thinking as it cooled it would get softer. Another note, cakes don’t get softer on a four hour ride to Miami.

Still, I iced it. Then layered the coconut all around like there’s no tomorrow. I said a prayer but at that point it was just a formality. Then I made it home. Well, the other home and there’s still no place like it. We exchange greetings. Hug like there’s no tomorrow. The “Happy Birthday!” on repeat ’cause he’s always been that guy.

The phone calls happen. The “Thank you”, is now on demand. We’ve migrated to the couch. I’m probably trying to get him to change from the news channel because who needs marketed devastation on a day of celebration. It was the prelude. The foreshadowing of today. The devastation I’m presently trying to keep at bay. I want so badly to call him and say “Happy Birthday, Daddy”. Matter of fact, I’d sing it to him. Every opportunity to remind him of my inherited tone-deaf confidence. But the last happy birthday serenade I gifted him he told me to stop, and sing, so I did. I was beyond grateful for my impromptu voice lessons that were paying off. I’m glad I gave him that. A sincere send off. A loving acknowledgement of another year.

Now he’s forever 78. I never gave the last happy birthday melody to him. I was mad about a text. Now I’m making French toast as a final goodbye. A lifetime of Thank you, Daddy, as I set the ingredients out for this damn cake.