Why my birthday means so much to me

My last birthday with my dad, Frankie

My biological father missed 31 of my birthdays. Not because he was a deadbeat dad or divorced my mom. It was because he was “taken to heaven” a month before I turned two.

My father, Francisco Ross, died at the age of 21. He’s been dead longer than he was alive, and that’s a reality I think about very often.

I don’t remember him. Not his smile, not his hug, not his voice. I only have pictures from our short time together and memories my mom shares with me. My curly/wavy hair is his and he loved cologne. That’s probably why I snuggle extra close to men when they wear it.

Often when we celebrate a birthday, we are commemorating the life of the person. For me, my celebratory manner, every year, is because I believe life should be spent happy, laughing and loving. I party for my birthday as a way to honor the life that’s no longer here, my Frankie’s. He only got to see 21 of his birthdays.

On February 10, I find myself thinking of my Frankie. I wonder if he’s proud of me, what he was

Frankie and me

thinking the day before I was born and was he afraid to hold my 8 pounds 6 ounces body. And then, on my birthday, every year, I thank God for his life and my mom’s. I thank God for their love and connection.

Losing a parent is heartbreaking. Losing a parent you can’t remember simply hurts, daily. I wish I could just talk to him, just once. I would listen to his stories, his advice and receive his love.

So when you see my pictures and videos on February 11 of me dancing, smiling and laughing, I’m often thinking, “I hope you can see me, Frankie. I’m doing really well. Your wishes and dreams for me are coming true."