Today, I Miss You Like This
Today, I Miss You Like This
Today I missed you in the cereal aisle.
Not in a dramatic way.
Just standing there too long,
staring at a box you would have made a joke about.
I missed you in the quiet before answering a question.
When someone asked how I’ve been.
There was a space where your name used to live.
I missed you when my phone buzzed
and for half a second
my body still thought it might be you.
I missed you in the middle of something ordinary —
folding laundry,
washing a mug,
watching the light shift across the floor.
Grief doesn’t always arrive loudly.
Sometimes it just taps my shoulder
and says,
“See? They should be here for this.”
I missed you in the way the day kept going anyway.
How traffic moved.
How emails came in.
How the world did not pause
even though something in me still has.
I missed you when I laughed.
That part always surprises me.
Joy still feels like it needs permission.
I missed you in the evening,
when the house softened
and there was no one to tell
about the small, forgettable details
that suddenly don’t feel forgettable at all.
Today I missed you like this —
in pieces,
in flashes,
in the most ordinary corners of the day.
Nothing monumental.
Nothing poetic.
Just you,
not here,
again.
And the day,
continuing. 🤍
Written by: Victoria Villada-Lopez
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