An Open Letter to Our Dearest Ritmo

Dear Ritmo,

Almost three years have passed since we said goodbye to you. Time has moved forward, but grief has its own strange way of stretching and folding back on itself. There isn’t a single sunrise or bedtime when I don’t think of you. You’re stitched into the fabric of our family, a quiet, unseen thread, and that will never change. Some days it feels far away, almost like a memory from another life, and other days it returns so sharply that it takes my breath away. You are still a part of our lives in ways that cannot be measured, explained, or separated from our everyday moments.

Back then, when we first learned about you, our hearts made space for you effortlessly. We rearranged our dreams, our days, and even our breaths to imagine a world with you in it. We imagined a family of four, our days filled with tiny footsteps, laughter, and love that only a child can bring. We started to prepare our home, our hearts, and our lives for you. And then, in the most painful way, that future was taken from us.

I will never forget signing the papers at the funeral home. The pen felt impossibly heavy in my hand. Every word I wrote, every line I signed, felt like a confirmation of a reality that I could not fully accept. And yet, even in that weight, there was love. There was love for you that refused to let go, love that continues to guide us and shape our lives even today.

The memory of losing you still feels heavy, Ritmo. I remember walking out with that hollow feeling in my chest, wondering how something so small could leave such a massive ache. That moment will always be a bruise on my heart. But even in the bruise, there is love, a reminder of the place you will always hold.

I still find myself imagining your face. Would your eyes have been your daddy’s sparkling blue or something entirely your own? We only got a glimpse, your tiny nose, your delicate features, but in that glimpse I saw a whole universe of possibility. I hold onto that because it’s all I can hold.

I imagine your laugh and the sound of your tiny voice. I imagine how you would have grown and what it would have been like to watch you experience your first steps, your first words, and your first birthday. Those thoughts bring both sorrow and joy, a mixture that only a parent who has loved and lost can understand.

Your sister Lyrica still speaks of you sometimes. She still wonders what it would have been like to play with you, to teach you the silly games she makes up, and to hug you tightly. She carries a piece of you in her heart. And your little sister, Conann, our rainbow baby, now fills the nursery we once imagined for you. She is sixteen months old, full of light and laughter. Not a day goes by that we do not think of you there. We hope that somehow you have met her and that you know how much you were loved. I hope that somewhere, in some way, your presence has brushed against hers, and that she knows her big brother exists in a place beyond what we can see.

Ritmo, losing you has taught us more than we could have ever imagined about love, grief, and resilience. It has taught us that love is not limited by time, and that grief does not diminish the joy that can still exist in life. Your life, though short, has left an indelible mark on our family. It has shown us how fragile life can be and how deeply it can be cherished.

Even as Conann fills our home with laughter and Lyrica shares her love so freely, we have never forgotten you. You are in the quiet moments, in the light that streams through the nursery window, in the stories we tell, and in the love that surrounds us. We have not moved on because love like ours does not move on. We have learned to carry you differently, to honor your memory by living fully, bravely, and with tenderness. Every choice we make to embrace joy and hope is in part for you. Every step we take forward is a way to honor your life.

To all parents who have lost a child, I want you to know that it is possible to continue loving, to continue living, and to carry your child in your heart without ever diminishing their presence. We can hold both grief and joy at the same time. We can allow sadness to exist alongside laughter. We can choose life, even when it feels impossible. That is what we strive to do for you, Ritmo. That is what you would want for us.

Thank you, our dearest winter bear, for choosing us even if only for a brief time. Thank you for teaching us about love that knows no limits, about the depth of a parent’s heart, and about the strength that emerges from sorrow. You will always be a part of us. You are woven into our family story forever.

We love you, Ritmo Firrantello. Always.

With all our love,
Mommy, Daddy, Lyrica, and Conann

Signed,
Jalyn (mom)