This piece was written by my niece, Abigail.
She wrote it in the quiet space grief leaves behind—the place where absence becomes a chair no one else sits in, where love keeps showing up even when a person can’t.
I’m sharing her words with her permission, exactly as she wrote them, because they hold something honest and tender about loss, memory, and the ways families keep making room for those they love.
Please read slowly.
And hold her with care.
— Lorinda
Another Year
“We made it another year!” I say to you
But… then I remember you didn’t.
I look at that black chair you loved so much
“I’m taking off like a rocket ship” you used to say when the blue lights were on.
As I look around the room you aren’t anywhere to be found but your love is felt.
We saved you a seat like it has become the new normal for us.
But we know better, things will never be normal again, will they?
Grandma keeps saying she hopes you’re in Heaven.
I keep telling her that you are, you are with the baby you never got to meet in this life.
I don’t know if I just tell her because I don’t want to see her cry or if I truly believe it.
I just hope you are in Heaven with your family.
I hope you are watching us and are proud.
Merry Christmas Grandpa, this year has been the hardest without you.
We won’t forget you.
I hope that as the years go on, we still save that seat for you
because we know that’s where you belong.
