Tomorrow is my daughter's birthday. She would have been 13. There is a space between the two boys I see, at times, as they walk, where she might have fit perfectly. There is a place next to me, when I sit with Maren on my lap and Chelsea's hands are on my shoulders, where she might have leaned into my side, just us girls. Her father's hand would reach at just about his chest, maybe, to smooth her hair as she hugged his middle.
We miss you, Kate Afton. I'm sorry we couldn't go to your grave.
But that's not where you are, anyway.