The moments she's missing

August 6, 2010

It was dusk and the sun had gone down without me realizing it, so the house was dark; no lights on yet. I timidly opened the door to his music room and walked in. He has a sleeping bag spread out on the floor for when he wants to get comfortable and really listen to an album. I sat down on the sleeping bag and then laid back and looked up at the ceiling fan. He sat down near me and crossed his legs. The new Lost Dogs CD was playing. I repositioned myself so my head was in his lap. He clicked through different songs, pointing out the things he liked about each of them. We were mostly quiet though, just listening. It wasn't a scene that I had fantasized about before, but I could picture her there with us nonetheless. She would have been laying on my stomach, following the flow of her parents' mood. She probably would have drifted off to sleep, it being her bedtime and all. He couldn't see my tears in the darkness as they slipped out the corners of my eyes. I didn't sob. I didn't weep. Just a few quick tears.

He moved to lay down next to me. "There are some moments where I can feel that she's missing," I said to him. He nodded in agreement.