Your birthday came around again today

 Your birthday came around again today.

Another year.
Another silent celebration.
Another reminder that love
doesn’t fade just because a heartbeat stops.

I thought about all the years
you blew through my life
with that tail-wagging joy—
how every birthday felt like a holiday,
how the house filled with laughter
just because you existed in it.

Now it’s quieter.
But not empty.
Never empty.

Because every year since you’ve been gone
has still carried you—
in the stories I tell,
in the pictures I pause to touch,
in the sudden warmth that slips into the room
when I least expect it.

People say grief fades,
but I don’t think that’s true.
I think love grows around it—
layer after layer—
until the ache becomes something softer,
something sacred,
something tender enough
to hold in both hands.

So today,
I didn’t bake a cake
or wrap a toy
or sing your silly birthday song.

Instead, I whispered your name
into the quiet morning air
and thanked you
for every moment you gave me.

Another year without you…
and yet somehow
another year you were loved
as deeply as ever.

Maybe even more.

Because love like ours
doesn’t shrink
when someone leaves—
it deepens.
It widens.
It becomes the kind of forever
that even time can’t touch.

Happy heavenly birthday, my heart.
Another year loved deeply—
and always will be.