He’s missing.

From my table.

Our table has eight seats and one is always empty.

He’s missing from our lives.

He should be there, amongst the noise and the blur of colour, hands in with the others, hands in the mess of fish and chips.

Hands greasy, mouth full of fat- laden -weekend comfort food.

He’s missing from the weekend activities, the ball throwing, the friendly banter of comfortable siblings, the ebb and the flow of everyday life.

He’s missing from the conversations with grandparents enquiring about what each child is up to.

He never rates a mention.

Not anymore.

There are no progress photos of him lining the hallway, no portraits of a little guy with fuzzy blonde hair and an impish grin amongst the freckles, a painted masterpiece in the background.

There will be no preschool graduation for him and no proud, tear stained eyes as he reaches the important milestones.

He is missing from the constant move forward in this thing that we call life.

He will always be William, the boy who hardly was.

Frozen in time, a baby of five days.

There will always be that missing person.

There will always be an empty chair.