Another weekend without you has come to an end.
We missed you every moment. Even if we didn’t always speak of your absence, the weight of it pressed down on us.
We missed you in the car ride. The van seemed cavernous with it’s many empty seats. The ride was quiet without your sweet voice, your laugh, and no arguments to break up between you and your sisters.
I missed hearing you say, “How do you like it, Maisie?” when you’d draw a picture to impress your sister; usually a cat or a fashionable outfit. I missed seeing you with your headphones on, listening to music or watching a movie.
We missed you at the hotel; you would’ve liked it. It was new and modern, just your style.
We only needed a small room with 2 queen beds, no rollaway. Because you are no longer with us. A family of 4 is tragically convenient.
We missed you in the hotel pool. Poppy had to play without you, dad now filling in despite his own missing. Families played and splashed around us, unaware of the ragged, painful hole in our family.
We missed you at the museum. You were supposed to come here on a field trip with your class last spring; you were so excited. You never got to go as you died just a few weeks before. Maisie helped Poppy with her Girl Scout badge activity. You wouldn’t have liked the crowds, and all the walking. But we would have accommodated you as we always did, out of our deep love for you. Now we don’t have to adjust our plans, and that is hard to get used to. Things are simpler now. But not easier.
We missed you at the restaurant. We talked about what you would have ordered; noodles with butter and cheese sauce. I missed watching you eat and talking with you around the table as a family.
We missed you as we toured the college campus your sister may attend someday. We have to plan ahead, even though it hurts. You will never get to go to college; your fund was divided between your sisters months ago. It felt like a betrayal.
After the tour we got donuts; you would have loved them. Fresh baked and the owner even let Poppy dip her donut in sprinkles. I wish you could have tried them.
We missed you when we looked through the trailers at the RV lot. You always loved to do that. You always wanted a giant motor home, not the trailer we had. We sold that trailer after you died; too many memories, and too big now. We look at small trailers; all we need is room for 4. Apathy sets in and the idea fades. It may take more effort than we are capable of to find another trailer.
We missed you at the store, looking for a puffy vest for your sister. You wore a vest from the same store, pretty in pink and so beautiful. Your sister wears it now, but she prefers blue. We don’t find any vests, which is ok with me.
We missed you when we got back home to the city in which you lived and died, which is hard for me to call home. Our house is sad and empty without you. Maisie leaves to spend the afternoon with friends. Dad once again fills in as Poppy’s playmate as you are gone and I am exhausted enough to take an uncommon nap.
They play on the trampoline that you only got to enjoy for one month to the day you died. I know because you wrote it on your calendar, the day it was delivered. March 4. Little did any of us know that on April 4 you would be gone. They play with your legos you only used for 3 short months; a Christmas gift on your last Christmas with us.
I missed you during yoga class, surrounded by people and mats. I was still so lonely for you, that I am glad the room was dark and I didn’t have to talk to anyone.
We missed you at dinner, with Nanny and Gampy over for tacos. We planned a summer vacation trip together, because life goes on without you here. Although I wish it wouldn’t.
Poppy missed you at bathtime. By now you would’ve been too old to share the tub. But I know you would’ve played with her beside the tub, because you were such a sweet big sister. And you would have laughed when the kitten fell in.
I missed you at bedtime. You aren’t here to choose an outfit for school picture day tomorrow; you died 4 days after picture day last year. Your outfit from last year still hangs in your closet.
I didn’t have to pack you a lunch and get your backpack ready. You aren’t here to remind to brush and floss, to tuck in and kiss goodnight. To pray with and say “I love you”.
Tonight I will have endured another weekend without you.