It's a second year without you today.
It's not any easier, but that's OK. It shouldn't be. We're spending a quiet day as a family, not saying a lot, just getting through it.
You'd be four. I imagine you'd be quite a handful at that age, given your exuberant personality. I think you'd be running all over the place, getting into trouble, but also making so many friends.
Mom went to a concert the other day. The singer heard of a kid who'd found out his cancer was in remission and gave him his guitar. Everyone cheered, but not all the tears were happy.
I think the hardest part about you not being here is seeing everything you'll miss out on. The smallest things - kids going back to school, finding something in the house you'd played with, or an innocent "do you have any other kids?" - can trigger a flood of pain. Or they can make us smile. We never know how we're going to react.
You did a great job picking out a sister. She reminds us of you but she's not you. Sometimes when she smiles I forget you were ever gone; other times... I miss you so much.
We're still your parents, but instead of potty training or playing catch we're out and about telling your story, raising money for the hospital in your name. I alternately worry we're overextending our efforts or not doing enough: the online auction is going to have more and better items, but next week's mini golf tournament only has four teams registered - at least half of them are either us or our friends.
What can we do though? I don't blame folks who don't follow your story anymore - as far as most are concerned it ended that day in Orlando when you took your last breath. There are no new photos or videos of you, no updates on your fight against leukemia. Just memories or charity updates.
But that's all we've got. That's your legacy. It's no less important to us now than it was then.