A Summer That’s Missing

I don’t always know what to say anymore.

Most of the time, what comes out is sorrow.

A broken heart.

The constant ache.

The feeling that your soul is being pulled away from this earth every minute of the day.

My mind is always on Gabe.

I think constantly about how different this summer would be if he still had his brother. How much more fun he’d be having. How many more adventures he’d be on — laughing, exploring, just being. We went to Mexico in June to see family and meet up with cousins. And while I’m grateful Gabe got to see them, the absence was massive. I kept thinking about how much more fun it would’ve been if Samson were there too.

And the part that breaks me most — Gabe doesn’t really have anyone anymore.

It’s the loss of a son.

The loss of a brother.

The loss of a best friend.

A confidant. A partner in crime.

Your built-in best friend — the one person you think will always be there.

I think both Gabe and I are grappling with the weight of this loss in different ways. Things just aren’t the same. And, as I’ve said before — they never will be. There’s a life-size hole in both of our hearts.

Summer used to be our favorite time as a family. We’d be out on the lake. We’d hit Cup and Cone in White Bear. It was our time for joy, for memories. But now, we don’t do most of those things. The joy to do them just isn’t there. It’s not fun for Gabe to be an only child.

When you’re a kid, your sibling is often your first best friend — the one you tell everything to. The one who sneaks you in after curfew. You can’t do that with your parents. Because of the way I grew up, I wanted to give my boys a different kind of childhood — one filled with fun, adventure, freedom. I wanted them to feel like they could just be kids.

And they did.

Gabe and Samson had the kind of bond I used to dream about.

Samson was the best big brother — always protecting, always looking out for him. I never worried when Gabe was with him. I knew he was safe.

And now… my Gabey baby doesn’t have that anymore.

There is so much emptiness. So much loneliness without Samson.

I still don’t understand how the world expects you to just “go back” to life after losing a child. How?

How can you ever return to the version of life that existed before?

Because the truth is — you can’t.

Life will never be what it was.

Summers.

Sunsets.

They all remind me of Samson.

I see his eyes in everything. I feel his presence in the quiet moments.

And I wonder what he sees from where he is now — what his view is like in Heaven compared to mine here on Earth.