STEPHEN C. BOLDT (January 25, 1950 - September 3, 1990).
Happy Birthday, Dad.

I miss you. That goes without saying. There are times in this life, sometimes, when I wonder if you were ever here at all, or if you were just some imaginary friend I had. But I know you were real. You left your mark. With your kids and your wife. We’re all kinda lost without you, trying hard to complete our lives in a normal fashion. All of us are pretty good at pretending we’re ok (whatever that is), but we’re not and I don’t think we ever will be. We’ve had happy times, but we’re all so confused. Actually, I don’t even feel as close to any of them as I should. I know I can go to them whenever I need to, but I think sometimes we’re scared of each other because of all we’ve been through and we remind each other of you. It’s probably just me, though. I’m always the troubled one. I believe you have a seat up there in heaven and you’ve been watching us. I know I’ve angered you, but I’m hoping that by just being up there in heaven, you are able to understand and forgive all the things I’ve done wrong. It seems they all started the day you left.

I’m sorry I didn’t go home after the funeral. I couldn’t. I needed to be away from the sadness of that house. Still going there today gives me a weird feeling. I don’t understand how Monti can live there. It’s suffocating, small and sad. I feel bad sometimes when I think they should just tear it down and build a new house. It has nothing to do with you, Dad, but I think sometimes I just want everything to be new so nothing reminds me of the painful past. Then again, I hoard my belongings in a trunk as if I’m saving them to build some cenotaph to the past. I have trunks and boxes full of my past and I can’t throw them away. I like to reminisce. I’m comfortable with the feeling of loss. It takes me inside myself, conjures up so much energy and I feel it running through me like warm water. Is it cleaning me out? I hope so.

Back to my apology. You know, everything you told me not to do, I did that year after you died. I got drunk, I smoked, I even had sex for the first time. You wouldn’t have liked the guy, but, if it’s not too weird to tell you, he was very nice and gentle with me. I think he cared about me, too. But I always think that. I’m starry-eyed. But worse than losing my virginity, were the nights I would go out with Amy and Lois, get drunk and make out with guys we had just met. I would always be sad if I didn’t meet anyone. I’m still this way today. I know that’s so stupid because you always told me that I was pretty, that you were proud of me, not to have sex before I was married, not to drink or smoke or take drugs. It seems that these things are all I’ve been doing! And then when I do get away from them, usually because I’m in a relationship, it ends up in failure because I choose these guys (or do they choose me?) who have no ability to love me long-term. This brings out anger, jealousy, possessiveness, fear, or any other number of the pathetic emotions that I unfortunately have yet to learn to handle. These things understandably drive people crazy and drive them away.

So I’m at a crossroads in my life. I’m single, Dad. There’s not a man in my life to say, “I have a girlfriend. Her name is Mollie.” I know that’s ok. I know I’m here for some reason and it sure as hell isn’t to be somebody’s girlfriend. I’m working on it. I have done some things that I know you’d be proud of. I have my Bachelor’s degree and I’m going to have my Masters in 3 years. I have big goals, but for now I have my family, great friends, a job where I’m appreciated, an apartment, a car, and I’m supporting myself. I’m trying to take care of my body, my mind and my soul. I read a lot, learn a lot and laugh a lot. You taught me these things. You reinforced the fact that these things were important. Oh, yeah, I'm in therapy. Figuring out I have yet to deal with the grief from your death. Until I do this, I plan on abstaining from a serious relationship. I don't think I could deal with another loss until I've truly dealt with yours. I hope it doesn't take too long. Patience is what I need. You were impatient, too, but probably aren't anymore. I bet it feels so much better.

So here I am on your 52nd birthday. Wondering what it’d be like if you were alive. Wondering how close we would be. Wondering if I could talk to you about all these crazy things in my head. Wondering if you’d understand. Wondering if you’d make me feel better, safer and more secure. Knowing you would. Most of the time it really sucks without you, but then I think of what a hard time you’d have conforming to the way people are today. They’re aren’t too many people like you anymore. I’m sure you’re in better company where you are. I remember you telling me you wanted me to be good so you could see me in heaven some day. I hope I’m doing that. I can’t wait to see you again. I think of you every day. I love you and love that you’re my dad.