Quiet Hour

Anna,

On this day, I write to you the way I wish I still could —
as if you’re sitting on the porch steps,
mud on your jeans from riding,
hair brushed smooth for whatever came next.
You were always both —
wild and polished,
fearless and tender,
the all‑American girl who fit everywhere
because you belonged to yourself first.

I think about that often.

On this day,
I feel you in the quiet corners of the world.
You had a way of lighting a room
without trying,
a way of making joy look effortless.
And even now,
ten years later,
that light still finds me
in the most unexpected places.

On this day,
I hold your promise close —
the one you made long before heaven called,
that you’d return as a butterfly
so we’d never doubt your nearness.
And every time one drifts by,
soft‑winged and unhurried,
I know it’s you keeping your word
in the only language you can send back.

On this day,
I want you to know
that you are still loved in the present tense.
Still missed in ways that don’t fade.
Still woven into the shape of who we are.

And so, Anna,
as this day closes,
I send you this blessing:

May your wings stay bright.
May your spirit stay near.
May your beauty keep finding us
in every place we need it most.
And may you feel, wherever you are,
that love still reaches you —
always.