Every year on my birthday...

Every year on my birthday, my dad calls me. We don't talk an awful lot throughout the year. But like clockwork, every single April 13, he calls me before noon right around the time I was supposedly born on that day in 1972.

I always let it go to voicemail. Not because I don't want to talk to him, but because I actually want him to leave me a message.

Sometimes when I play it back, it sounds like he might’ve been a little disappointed that I didn't pick up, saying things like “I know you’re busy" and "I hope I get to talk to you today."

And then he leaves me a long message about what that day was like when I was born: it was a clear, slightly breezy spring morning with just a few clouds in the sky, about 70 degrees. All the dogwoods were in full bloom. The azaleas were bursting with color. Everything was beautiful. Then I was born. And it was the happiest day of his life.

I have been saving these voicemails for about 15 years now. My favorite thing to do when I wake up in the morning on my birthday is to listen to them, one by one. The best one is from 2013. While it's just barely over a minute long, it's the most descriptive.

Today's was only a few seconds, but the story is always the same. A day like today. Beautiful. Colorful. Happy.

I always call him back a couple hours later and we have a great catch-up conversation. I don't tell him I'm saving his voicemails. I don't want him to catch on. I don't even think he knows he's telling me essentially the same story every year.

One day I won't get these messages anymore, or the calls. Until then, I look forward to my voicemail from Dad every year.