He is 10

According to Timehop, this is all I said 10 years ago today.

Sean and I were walking through the Mexico Shop West gift shop last night at South of the Border when it hit me.

"I've never really processed it," I said.

We were talking about my great-nephew (and Sean's second cousin) Gabriel, who died at birth 10 years ago today in Alabama.

We've timed our trips to North Carolina just right so that we can be with Kristy, Hector, Evelyn, Eleanor, and Isabel to honor the memory of the little boy we never got to know. With Laura, Kelly, and Emma (and sometimes Mary and Kendall) we're all able to gather in a pseudo group hug.

We don't quite do the touchy-feely.

But we'll raise a glass to him tonight.

I looked back at what I wrote 10 years ago this week. Apparently, I did a "Rule 55": "Much to say from yesterday...good and bad...but I'll offer none here."

No, I've never processed it. And I hasten to say any of that because it's not about me, of course. Oh yeah, this is my little piece of real estate and all, but it is really what Kristy and Hector went through that awful morning in Fort Payne.

He was the second child and the first after Evelyn.

I was in Virginia when my cell rang. As it was my brother's birthday, I didn't expect him to be calling me. Doug is Kristy's father and, thus, Gabriel was his grandson.

I answered it with my usual greeting to him, saying something probably obnoxious.

The mood was immediately dark and he gave me the news.

I drove home from in a fog. Doug, Debbie, and Stephanie would go to Alabama. Do I drive to New York, grab my mom and go? Like, how do we handle this? How do we grieve?

I think we ultimately decided to not go because there feels like there's a point where the number of people can feel overwhelming. I can tell you that 10 years later, I would likely feel differently. I might have also needed to be home for Sean, though some of the memories are foggy.

Just like that drive.

Kristy and Hector sent pictures of Gabriel. My mother handed me the envelope. I looked at it.

Once.

I've never opened it since. Just too hard to see.

There's a picture of him roughly 15 feet from where I'm sitting. Emma -- goddaughter, great-niece, and all-around "Holy Child" -- is sitting on a couch just near it. She's playing something on her cell phone and hanging out.

The house is otherwise quiet as Sean sits next to me doing Sean things and Isabel watches TV. Kristy, more today than any other day, is resting. A dog barks outside, and five silly cats are bouncing around.

Gabriel is swaddled in a blanket in the picture. There are a few shelves of trinkets with it, including a red toy car that somehow was brought about by a dream my mother had about my father and the baby.

My dad. Always my dad.

The items had been in a curio cabinet that had a light shining in it. Kristy decided it was too formal.

More than my grief is how Kristy and Hector have processed theirs. On the occasion of his birthday in 2016, I pulled us all together for a toast and asked Hector to speak. He was wonderfully eloquent in his words.

Tough people, both he and his wife.

I can only imagine how their faith has been shattered, but this group tends to not be much for religion. The irony, of course, is Stedman is not only a "dry" town but there's a Pentecostal church only a few minutes away, with other houses of worship nearby. Kristy was visited by people of faith upon moving to town and politely declined all invitations.

In my case, it only increases my questions with faith.

Yet, if -- and we know what the "if" is -- then I hope he's dominating on a soccer team, honoring his father's love of "The Beautiful Game." I'm sure he would tell me how boring baseball is and I'd try to have him watch a game with me. I'd want to believe he'd watch USC football with his dad and maybe even support his Dallas Cowboys. Don't worry, I've already corrupted younger sister Eleanor to at least say her favorite team is the Steelers, even if she can't name a player.

But "if" then I hope he's hanging with those who've left us and watching over his family. I hope he and his great grandfather are taking a ride in that red car.

We'll raise a glass to his memory but will likely soldier on. Maudlin isn't our thing.

We're surrounded by great young women in the North Carolina portion of our family.

I wish I could have truly known this little boy.

So, forgive me.

This is my chance to grieve.