Charlie should have graduated high school this year. Instead, there was an empty chair.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m grateful for the empty chair. Our high school gave us the option to have the chair with a graduation gown and cap and we could add a picture or memento. Sadly, there were actually two missing members of the 2026 graduating class — one of Charlie’s classmates died a couple of years after him for (I believe) the same reason. Those parents didn’t choose to have their daughter represented (or they are no longer in the District, not sure), and I cannot blame them.

Seeing that missing chair hit hard. I attended the graduation ceremony, in no small part because so many of Charlie’s friends and my friend’s children were graduating. I wanted to celebrate their achievements.

And what achievements! We offered his graduating class the $2,000 Charlie Bledsoe True Colors Scholarship and had the privilege of reviewing 90+ applications. I was amazed at how hard these kids work, what great grades they get and how passionate they are about doing good in this world. I actually wondered when some of them slept, they had so many extracurricular activities. I may have cried a little when the “B”s walked the stage, but it was exciting to celebrate these amazing kids.

I went to the ceremony alone; my husband could not attend and I totally understand. We grieve very differently. I sat by myself, way up in the bleachers. I did not want to take any joy or happiness away from the graduates and their families, or make this about me. I slipped out as fast as I could after. Many people stopped me to offer their thoughts and I very much appreciated it but it felt awkward, as if I was the wicked fairy at the baby’s christening. No one wants to think about death and loss when you’re celebrating the beginning of the next phase of your child’s life.

In hindsight, I question my motivations for wanting to include Charlie. Other than the chair, there was no mention of him in the ceremonies — as it should be. Although we are a small school district, I imagine there were a lot of Charlie’s classmates who never knew him or barely remember him. It was just for me. Was it selfish?

Probably. The people who loved and knew Charlie have never forgotten him. Already today, I’ve received messages from friends letting me know they are thinking about our family on this, the 8th anniversary of his death. His legacy lives on in the annual scholarships we give in his name to Camp Invention, and the library mural, and in all the memories we collectively have of our funny, talented boy. I know he’s remembered and loved.

I understand if that empty chair felt unnecessarily sad to those there to celebrate their kids, or even to the kids themselves. I’m sorry. I needed to mark what would have been an important milestone. I needed to remind myself that he was here and he mattered. I needed to mourn all the possibilities represented by that empty chair.

Because the chair wasn’t really empty. It didn’t represent grief and loss. Or at least, not only grief and loss. It was full of all that Charlie could and should have been — his creativity, positive energy, and unique way of thinking. His fierce friendship and deep love. His passionate, enthusiastic and full-throttle approach to life.

I hope that when you think about that chair, it inspires you to remember that love is forever. I hope that you always show your true colors and be yourself. And I hope you take a bit of Charlie’s light with you if you ever find yourself in a dark place.

An age progression photograph of what Charlie might have looked like in his senior picture.