129 – Tue, Jun 25, 2019, 9:11 PM

Boulder on the shore of North Lake Tahoe, California (Miranda Hernandez)
Boulder on the shore of North Lake Tahoe, California (Miranda Hernandez)

The lead up is different this time. It’s quieter. I’m not sobbing. I sit here with your sister and most parts of the day I feel fine. It’s only in those random moments, those echoes of memory — and I still wish I could feel more of you. I miss the things I missed of you.

Your sister is sleeping. I am full of love and she fills my days. Our puppy is a constant handful. I have glimpses of the toddler years. I think about you as a two year old. I remember the racks of toddler shorts and button-down shirts. Even today, I still think about what you would be wearing, and the little boy laundry I’ll never have to do.

It’s quieter this year and I don’t know what this means. I can only find my tears when I write about you. I wish I could always be writing about you. I wish I knew better how to miss you.

I miss you.

I miss you.

I miss you.

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