Grace is everywhere but she's not here.
…
She's in his room, on everything she ever touched. She's in his bed, sleeping, kissing him, laughing. She's on his floor, folding his shirts he so desperately wanted to keep ruffled. She's the sun that creates a slim strip on the floor where it's warmer than the rest of the room. It's like she's there, but she's not.
…
And she's in her parents as he watches them at the funeral. He sees her in her mother, beautiful and bright and breakable. He sees her in her father, strong and certain and stubborn. And when they come together to hold each other through the ceremony, he sees her in them both. Together they can almost be like her, separate they are just two halves.
…
And she's in him too. He looks himself in the mirror and sees the short hair Alo cut for her. He sees the shirt she bought him ages ago for her aunt's wedding. He sees the lips that she kissed and the face she caressed and the eyes that never stopped searching for her. That never will. And he feels her inside him too. With every breath of air. With every beat of his heart. She's there, no, not really, but sort of.
…
And she's in the baby that is born that day. He holds her. Her name is Grace, they tell her. He nods as if he knew, because he kind of did. He thinks that everything will always remind him of her, every birth and death and marriage and separation. He watched Alo and Mini and thinks of her. He listens to the radio and thinks of her. And he holds a small baby and thinks of her more than ever. "You're here now" he whispers to it and to her.
She's always here.