My colleagues and I told people they were important in the lives of kids and our actions matched our words. Taking care of the lives who take care of our kids grants us a kind of reward that surpasses paychecks or titles. It was a good thing.
However, you weren't here so I could call you and tell you about it. I found myself not wanting to tell anyone really if I couldn't tell you.
There's this space between happiness and sadness where we are just empty looking for you. I told your daddy the other day how guilty I felt. Those boys fill our house with so much orneriness and noise and love - I feel guilty I just can't be grateful and happy to have them. True to his form and his pithy wisdom, your daddy summarily concluded, "It isn't guilt. Something is just missing and it's not right."
So we tease Wade, mercilessly; only your father's comments coming close to cutting like yours did. We pass good onto others despite the emptiness. We say, "Taylor would..." and "Your sister would say..." or "That t-shirt would end up in Norman." and sometimes we smile or laugh, and other times we look away from each other unable to see the pain we feel.
We've learned that each time tomorrow comes, we have another opportunity - an opportunity to get stronger, to do better, to rest with more intention, to play with more abandon, to love more recklessly, to embrace more wholeheartedly, or maybe just to cry - because while there may be another day, there will never be another Taylor.
I miss you everyday, more so on the days where happiness nestles comfortably in my lap like my favorite red head baby girl use to do.