I try to remember him, but it fades. It’s too painful to remember, so my heart develops a callus, it hardens. Because if I remember his smell, his skin, his swollen finger on his left hand, his eyes, I won’t be able to stop remembering, and a flood of him will overwhelm me. From his forced smile, to his sigh, to the back of his hand on his forehead, and his banging of his head on my chest as he sat in my lap. And his reaching, his apathy, his loneliness, his pain. His loss of control, his weight that worked against him, his struggles to breathe. And his eyes. He looked at me, purely. I want to think that he saw love, purely, without reserve. Because he was pure. He was a simple, truthful expression of everything that was right and wrong in his world. A distillation of all the struggles of his life. The infections, and dislocations, and breaks, and tightening of muscles. And his hand would hold mine. And he needed me. And he missed me when I was gone. And he remembered me when I returned. And he loved. And he was loved. And I miss him. My oldest son George died last year. He was 19. Medically fragile, globally disabled. Wholly and perfectly unique. And shining. And warm. And calm. And peaceful. And simple. And honest. And human. And good. He was my light. My truth. My disappointments. My failings. My lack of empathy. My distance. My limitations. And he had my eyes. And lashes. And aspect. And he cared. He was careful. He was cautious. He was capable of moving the world. He was my son. On June 18^th in 2019 he took a breath. And then he didn’t. And I don’t think I’ve taken a breath since. I’m breathless.