It’s the fifth Christmas we’ve experienced without our daughter and each has been dramatically different. I’m finally feeling that old magic again, as I watch our son’s face all aglow with excitement at the idea of presents and cookies. He’s old enough now to understand that something special happens with a twinkling tree and gifts in the corner of the room. It is the most joyous and beautiful thing to watch, and my heart is wrapped in a warm blanket of happiness.

Except.

Except someone is missing. I feel Lucy’s absence as much as I feel the presence and vitality of Everett. I can only wonder. I can only whisper, “Merry Christmas, sweet Lucy,” as I gaze wistfully at what might have been her life.

I turn my attention back to our thriving two year old and smile with sincere gratitude and marvel at him. For another moment, I am floating along in the magic, and only the magic.

Except.

Except when I see the blank space where she should be. The missing piece of our little family who will always occupy a space in our hearts and at our table, where there is plenty of room for both the highest joy and deepest grief.