There is an empty chair at my dinner table.
I try to avoid looking at it by moving the table centerpiece to where your precious face once was.
I understand this is the natural progression of life: breast to sippy cup, sippy cup to high chair, high chair to booster seat, booster seat to chair, chair to empty chair.
But what I wouldn’t give for one more day.
Once more to see your little head peeking above the table insisting you are allergic to salad, even fruit salad. I miss telling you salmon is sword fish and broccoli is baby trees.
I long to ask about your day, your friends, and your weekend plans.
I miss your laughter and even your sarcasm. I miss how you spoke in movie quotes.
I miss tucking you in at night and bringing you water 30 minutes later.
I miss checking on you at 2 a.m. I would put my head to your face to make sure you were breathing.
I miss hearing you sing in the shower.
I miss checking your little pockets and finding rocks, pennies, or any other treasure you picked up that day.
I didn’t really know love until I held you.
I didn’t realize how little time we actually had.
You have your own dinner table now. Someone else is asking about your day and you are cooking your own meals—which I’m sure do not include salad.
I just want you to know that chair at the table will always be yours.
I will forever see a blond hair, blue-eyed little boy sitting there asking if I made gravy.