1,000 nights I have woken up in the night to hear your voice only to realize you are not there.

1,000 days I have come home from work expecting to hear, “Hey Mom! How was your day?”

1,000 days I have waited at night for you to come in the door to tell me about your evening.

1,000 days have consisted of tears or fighting back tears, depression, and/or sadness.

1,000 days of needing friends, needing family, needing God, feeling frustration, desperation.

1,000 days of hearing your name mentioned as “Trey was…” knowing your considered in the past.

1,000 days of wondering how you would be doing in school and where would you be going.

1,000 days of talking to myself wondering if you hear me blabbering about the things Collin is doing.

1,000 days of remembering what we did each day during your cancer journey.

1,000 days of hearing your laughter ring in my ears and remembering the smile that lit up a room.

1,000 times of singing 10,000 Reasons and going back to the bed at St. Jude and wanting to hold you just one more time.

1,000 days of looking in your closet and wondering what I’m going to do with all of your clothes.

1,000 days of missing 3,000 plus 30 minute long hot showers.

1,000 days of remembering at least three changes of clothes a day…at least three.

1,000 days of not hearing “Collin, do you have my Nike Elite socks?” Collin, “NO!”

1,000 days of missing our talks at night as you sat at the end of our bed…and you listened…and you talked…and we laughed.

1,000 days of missing both boys in the bed watching a movie and hearing “Move Over!”

1,000 days of remembering how we talked about the sermon on the way home and going into deeper conversation.

1,000 days of remembering how you and I both sang Phantom and Wicked in the car together.

1,000 days of remembering when I called you to the bannister to tell you we had to go to Le Bonheur and the look on your face that I can’t erase…the fear.

1,000 days of trying to forget tubes, shots, procedures, chemo, lines, medications, throw up bags…

1,000 days of how you insisted on doing your laundry at 2 a.m. and was so OCD.

1,000 days of memorizing your face, your voice, your touch.

1,000 days of looking at the same pictures and watching the same videos knowing there will not be new pictures on my phone.

1,000 days of wondering when will Collin understand God’s purpose and miss you.

1,000 days of spending moments with your friends, receiving hugs, joining hands, and feeling loved.

1,000 days of receiving texts, emails, cards, calls, and visits from so many who hear a song, see your face, and ache for us.

1,000 days of appointments with counselors, psychiatrists, psychologists, therapists to learn how not to miss you.

1,000 days of learning how to lean a little more…just like you did.

1,000 days of remembering how strong you were till the end.

1,000 days of remembering whispering sweet things in your ear as we laid next to each other as you began to journey to Jesus.

But now, it has been 1,000 days that you’ve been at the precious feet of our Savior.

Selfishly, I still want one more day because it feels like only one day.

Jesus, thank you for letting me hear him say, “It’s okay mama. I’m okay.”

Jesus, please give this mama 1,000 plus glimpses of Trey with you in glory.

Heal this mama’s heart.