Missing You Always

Missing You Always My wish is to give peace, comfort, and hope to those on earth grieving the loss of a loved one.

I nearly stepped on a small white flower growing near the gravel driveway.It looked exactly like the ones you used to br...
06/24/2026

I nearly stepped on a small white flower growing near the gravel driveway.
It looked exactly like the ones you used to bring inside in jars.
The kitchen window needs to be washed, but I can't find the energy
to wipe away the dust that has settled over the glass this month.

The mailman left three letters on the porch that weren't ours,
and I walked all the way down to the corner box to return them.
The afternoon air smelled of dry pine needles and asphalt heating up,
a thick summer heat that always makes the house feel too quiet.

Your old car keys are still sitting in the ceramic dish by the door,
clinking slightly whenever the radiator kicks on in the evening.
This missing you is an overdue library book left in the back of the closet,
a quiet debt I keep accumulating while the rest of the world moves on.

Still, I went out and checked the tomatoes on the vine today.
They are growing small and green despite the lack of rain this season,
and I found myself watering them until the soil turned dark,
choosing to keep the garden alive even if you aren't here to see it.

The grandfather clock in the living room keeps its heavy, slow tick.
It is the loudest sound in a house that used to be full of talk.
I sit at the table with a cold bowl of soup I won't finish,
watching a brown butterfly circle the porch light.

The clock ticks.
The shadows stretch long across the linoleum floor.
I haven't turned the television on in days.
The screen is just a dark square reflecting the wall.

— Missing You Always

I found a purple butterfly sitting on the cold river rock today.It stayed completely still, the way you used to when you...
06/24/2026

I found a purple butterfly sitting on the cold river rock today.
It stayed completely still, the way you used to when you were reading.
The water is quiet this afternoon, barely moving against the gravel bank where
the old wooden dock used to stretch out into the deep channel.

The laundry is still piled on the armchair by the window,
waiting for a Sunday afternoon that never feels like it arrives anymore.
I washed the blue coffee mugs twice because I forgot I already cleaned them,
my mind slipping backward into a kitchen that doesn't exist.

The porch light left a yellow stain across the front lawn last night,
and the stray cat didn't come to the door for its food.
Everything is moving in these slow circles, regular and unhurried,
while I am still trapped in the minute before the phone rang.

But I don't try to pull away from the heavy weight anymore.
Carrying this grief is like holding a bag of groceries that never rips,
heavy and necessary, the only way I have left to touch you
across this wide distance we never planned for.

The neighbors are putting up their summer screen doors down the lane.
I hear the hammers striking the nails through the open kitchen window.
The sound is sharp and dry, hitting the walls of the hallway,
where your boots are still lined up straight.

The moon rises.
It is too bright for this small house.
I leave the back door unlocked.
I don't know who I am waiting for.

— Missing You Always

There's a daisy that came upby itself this spring,in the dirt I never planted anything in,and I don't know what to do wi...
06/23/2026

There's a daisy that came up

by itself this spring,

in the dirt I never planted anything in,

and I don't know what to do with that.
My hand goes out toward it anyway,

the way it used to go toward you

without asking my permission first.
I don't touch the flower. I just hover.
A moth lands near it sometimes,

brown and plain, nothing special,

and I find myself watching it longer

than something that small should get.
There are things I know about you

that I've never told anyone.
Not because they're sad.
Because I don't have the words,

and I'm not sure they'd survive

being said out loud

in a voice that isn't yours to hear them in.
So I keep my hand half-open over the flower.

I don't pick it.

I just let it grow there,

unexplained, the way you'd want me to

The moon is full again tonight,and I'm standing at the edge of the waterwith my arm raised up,like that ever brought you...
06/23/2026

The moon is full again tonight,

and I'm standing at the edge of the water

with my arm raised up,

like that ever brought you closer.
A firefly passes near my hand

the way you used to pass me things

without looking,

just knowing I was there to catch them.
I don't reach for the moon because I think

it will answer.

I reach because reaching is something

to do with my hands at night.
The butterfly on the rock hasn't moved.

Neither have I, really,

not in any way that counts.
Stillness.
My dress is wet at the hem from wading in

without deciding to.

I do that more than I used to —

end up somewhere I didn't plan to go.
The water keeps the moon's shape

long after I look away.

I keep your shape the same way,

whether I'm looking or not.

The cardinal comes back to the same spoton the sand, every time I sit here,like it's checking if I'm stillthe one who co...
06/22/2026

The cardinal comes back to the same spot

on the sand, every time I sit here,

like it's checking if I'm still

the one who comes.
I used to bring two coffees down here.

Now I bring one

and set the extra cup down anyway,

out of habit, out of something.
The tide doesn't care what day it is.

It just keeps coming in.
I've stopped trying to explain it

to people who ask if I'm okay.
I am.

I'm also not.
Both of those are true

at the same time, every morning,

and nobody warns you

that's how it actually works.
The bird doesn't fly off when I cry.

It just waits, the way you used to,

until I was ready to walk back up

to the car.
I still don't lock the car right away.

I sit there first.

I keep the lilies in the same blue vase,the one you always said was too bigfor the kitchen table, and I nevermoved it an...
06/22/2026

I keep the lilies in the same blue vase,

the one you always said was too big

for the kitchen table, and I never

moved it anywhere else.
Today I almost called you

about something small —

a leak under the sink,

nothing that mattered.
The water's still running.

I fixed it myself.

I didn't think I'd mind

doing things myself.
I do.
Some mornings the light comes in

exactly how it used to,

and for a second I forget

which year I'm standing in.
The lilies open slower than I remember.

I water them anyway,

on the schedule you taught me,

like it still matters that I get it right.
I don't know who I'm doing it for now.

I keep doing it.

The single small white flower grew through the dirt,right where the garden hose leaked near the fence.I reached down tod...
06/20/2026

The single small white flower grew through the dirt,
right where the garden hose leaked near the fence.
I reached down today to pull at the weeds,
my knuckles covered in dry earth and gravel.

The brown dirt smells like old rain and iron,
the same scent that clings to the cellar door,
where the jars of preserves are gathering dust,
their handwritten labels starting to peel away.

A brown butterfly landed on the wooden post,
its wings opening and closing in the heat,
a rhythmic movement that felt far too rhythmic
for a yard that has been completely silent all day.

This heavy remembering is just the price of it,
the quiet toll paid for having known your face,
like keeping a broken watch in a desk drawer
and winding it up every single morning anyway.

The coffee on the counter went completely sour,
and the mail on the table is mostly flyers,
addressed to a house that feels much too large
for a person who only occupies one single chair.

The sun goes behind the garages early here,
casting long shapes across the unraked lawn.
The dirt stays stuck beneath my fingernails.
I think I will leave it there.

— Missing You Always

I stare at the pale full moon every night,the quiet white circle that doesn't care you are gone.The kitchen is cold by m...
06/20/2026

I stare at the pale full moon every night,
the quiet white circle that doesn't care you are gone.
The kitchen is cold by midnight, and the floorboards
make that same creaking sound near the sink.

The kettle on the stove cools down too fast,
and I am left standing in the blue shadow,
watching the water go still in the ceramic mug,
remembering how your hands always stayed warm.

The watercolor sky outside looks blurred and soft,
like a painting we bought at the local fair,
the one hanging crookedly in the dark hallway
where the light never quite reaches the edge.

But missing you has become a quiet habit now,
something I carry into the grocery store,
a heavy winter coat worn in the middle of June,
protecting me from the sudden, sharp drafts.

The porch steps are rotting slowly at the bottom,
and the neighbors still wave when they drive past,
expecting me to wave back with both hands
instead of keeping one tucked deep in my pocket.

The moon moves across the pane of glass,
leaving the room behind in darkness again.
I haven't changed the sheets on the bed.
I just leave the bedroom door shut.

— Missing You Always

The bear is being held the way you holdthe only solid thing left in a soft grey room.Face pressed in. Arms all the way a...
06/19/2026

The bear is being held the way you hold

the only solid thing left in a soft grey room.
Face pressed in. Arms all the way around.

Not performing sadness for anyone —

there's no one else in the frame,

just the boy and the bear and the quiet.
People say missing someone is hard.

They are right, and it is not the hardest part.
The hardest part is the flat fact underneath it —

not getting to see them again,

not "missing," which at least implies a return,

but the door that does not reopen.
I have held things like that bear.

Not literally — the version that fits an adult's arms.

A sweater. A voicemail saved past its expiration.

A coffee mug nobody else is allowed to use.
The boy's grip has not loosened.

The grey room holds both of them quietly.

He is not crying into the bear's fur on purpose.

He is just holding what's solid.
— Missing You Always

He is sitting on the rock with his knees pulled inand the butterflies don't seem to bother him at all.I know that postur...
06/19/2026

He is sitting on the rock with his knees pulled in

and the butterflies don't seem to bother him at all.
I know that posture from the inside.

The curling in. The chin down.

The world going on in soft purple-grey

while something in you stays folded.
There used to be a version of me

that existed before this happened.

I keep looking for her in the same places

I used to find her without trying.
She is not in the daisies.

She is not in the field.
What I have found instead — slowly, without asking for it —

is a different person sitting on the same rock,

folded the same way,

just older in a way that has nothing to do with years.
The daisies are still white and purple around him.

The butterflies keep moving without urgency.

He has not lifted his head yet.

I have not found her yet either.
— Missing You Always

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10101 Oldfield Court
Fort Worth, TX
76244

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