by: Michelle Loveless

“You’ve gotta see this, Honey,” my husband motions me to the window. Standing at the window, gazing into the sky is Henrik, our two year old son. 

“What are you doing?”I ask our little guy, curiously.

” I’m going to play hockey with Dominik”, he says with a matter-of-fact tone. Then he holds up his hockey stick, still looking into the sky. 

A lump catches in my throat, and I see a tear in the corner of my husbands eye. Our son Dominik would be 5 this year, and I’d give just about anything to see him play hockey with Henrik. 

Hockey is big at our house. Big enough that both Dominik and Henrik are named after Detroit Red Wings players. Dominik was supposed to play. And we were supposed to drive him to practice, watch from the sidelines, and cheer for him. Instead our son went straight to heaven. 

In this moment, as my precious Henrik searches the sky, looking for his big brother, my heart aches in a new place. His innocence is so sweet as he looks out, seeing things that I can’t see, wanting to share his hockey stick with his brother. 

I long for the day when our family will be reunited and I can watch my boys–two brothers, playing hockey together.