I’ve been cleaning the house this evening, trying to restore some order to the inside as I’m hoping to play outside in the yard next week over spring break. I started in the dining room, moving a lamp or two around and rearranging a few photos that were clustered on a side table. Stopping, I picked up Jesse’s picture and ran my finger along his face, brushing away the dust on the glass. Peering intently at his eyes, drawn into their blueness, I drank in the curve of his cheek and the sweet twist of his crooked smile, so like my own. His hair was lifted by the breeze and he was glancing down at the sand smiling as he watched the water rushing toward his toes. If I closed my eyes, I could remember that moment—hear the surf—almost remember the sound of his voice. My throat began to tighten and my heart pounded with the familiar aching that has been a companion for such a long time.

This Memorial Day weekend marks the 10th year that we have been without Jesse in our lives. Some days I think of him in passing, and others I can think of no one else. Tonight, looking at his picture I was ambushed by the intense desire to hold him, smell his hair, and lace my fingers with his small ones. The gift of time has helped with the searing intensity grief, but there are still times when the waves of sorrow break over me and I am pulled down by a rushing current of pain. However, these times also provide a much needed gift— although laden with anguish, they bring with them memories that are achingly sweet, and give me the opportunity to remember him anew, mixing joy with sorrow.

I haven’t been able to write much about him yet, but I thought I might post a picture.

I miss you Jesse.