April 24, 2002 | 2:54 PM

(Second entry of the day)

Today would have been my father�s 56th birthday. I wonder what he would be up to now if he were still alive. Would he still be married to my Mom? Would he be a freelance writer like he wanted to be? He gave Kodak his two weeks notice right before he died. My whole family was going to move to San Francisco together. My dad was going to drive a truck and write. Then one morning he just didn�t wake up.

And that was the end of that.

My father wrote hundreds and hundreds of poems in the weeks prior to his passing. Many of which were about dreams he had�dreams of being a soldier in the civil war. The dreams were so real he said, that when he woke up in the morning he was unsure of who he was. He thought he was still this other person�this dream soldier.

There are so many snapshots I carry in my memory.

My father dragging my sister and I on a sled up and down our snowy tree lined street as we laughed and sang �We All Live in a Yellow Submarine�.

Coming home from school and finding Beatles and Madonna and Tears for Fears records on my bed, with an index card on top saying, �from dad�

Seeing Superman II hundreds of times in the theater.

Teaching my dad how to bake cakes and dying the frosting blue.

Going running with him around and around our block, he slowing to my child�s pace, encouraging me along, telling me what a great job I was doing. I wanted to be a marathon runner just like him.

My dad reading me bedtime stories in funny voices, and adding absurd and non-conformist subplots to fairytales.

My dad tossing me in the air and tickling me and carrying me around on his shoulders.

And best of all I remember the one time he ever told me that he loved me. It was after we watched the film, �Misunderstood� starring Gene Hackman and Henry Thomas. A silly movie really. About a father who is distant towards his son after the father�s wife dies. We were watching it on TV and I fell asleep on the couch. I remember waking up to my father carrying me in his arms up the stairs. I woke up to hearing him say, �I love you, Anna.�

I lived for those words. I had never heard him say them before or after.

And then one day he didn�t wake up.

And that was that.

My relationship with him wasn�t all hearts and flowers. He was a difficult man. He had a horrible temper. His own father died when he was four, and his mother forbade him and his siblings from crying or displaying any kind of emotion over their loss. He had a lot of problems showing his feelings. Sometimes he would ignore me for days on end. And other times he would treat me like there was nobody else in the entire world but me.

I worshipped him. I adored him. I loved him. And beyond that, I liked him so much.

Sometimes, even thirteen years after his death, I will hear a song or see a movie and think to myself, I really need to tell Dad about that. And almost exactly as the thought occurs, another thought takes its place.

I�ve lost him. I�ve lost him forever

And the sadness of being twelve years old and knowing that I will never be with my father again echoes and reverberates through me over and over.

What I wouldn�t give to see him for just one more hour.

It�s like the record player skipped and I got stuck at that age, and I�ve never gotten past it.

I think this is why I have such problems letting people go, or saying good-bye to people.

Especially if I love someone.

When I love someone who�s hurting me, I think to myself, how would I feel if this person died? I would take back all the complaints I had about his lack of initiative or the fact that he doesn�t follow through on promises or that he�s emotionally distant 90% of the time.

Because I know that if I lost him forever, I would give anything just to have him back for one god damned day.

This is not a good or healthy way to be.

Love is enough. And it isn�t enough. There are other things that are just as important. Like respect. And doing the work it takes to build a life with someone. And being able to face yourself and be honest.

Missing my father is palpable. It won�t go away. It never ever stops hurting. It follows me into every relationship I have and swoops me out of the present, back to the day when I was told he�d had a heart attack and was never coming home again.

There is no good way to end this entry.

So I�ll just end it.