For Aaron and Everett
In honor, celebration, and memory of Reid
THIS IS MY story, as I remember it, allowing that time and grief have rendered some memories unreachable. Some events have been compressed or reordered; conversations have been reconstructed from memory. Passages from my blog and social media have been incorporated to stay true to the grief of those seasons. Some names have been changed to protect the anonymity of those persons, and some have been kept as they are in real life. I acknowledge that if your gender, ethnicity, sexuality, religion, experiences, or beliefs are different than mine, what is written on these pages might not always resonate. If this is true, I say: I see you, your story is important in its differences and similarities, and I hope you feel supported by this book as a whole. In all ways, I have attempted to honor the roles that the members of my far-reaching community have had in my journey. I write with gratitude for these connections. Though this is my story, I am not alone in it.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
—THEODORE ROETHKE, “The Waking”
Contents
Prologue
I SEE HIM AGAIN in November. It’s the first time. The little gray-and-white chevron cardigan we’d bought for him is still rolled up at the wrists. His hat sits a little too far back on his head, letting wisps of black hair escape from underneath. His cheeks are flushed red through his porcelain skin.
I walk toward him, through the crisp winter air, through the backyard of my childhood home. I circle the edge of the pool and notice the muddle of leaves and worms sitting in its depths. The grand Douglas fir stands tall at the back of the yard, but the shrubs growing wildly around it are naked in their state of rest. Under the canopy of the fir, in the spot next to the large, wayward root where our late dog Magnus used to lie, Reid sits in his car seat, eyes closed. Even though time has passed, he is still a newborn, as he was that single day in April when we gazed upon his face. All evidence of his passing has been erased. I’m dreaming, of course I’m dreaming, but it feels more real than anything I’ve experienced before.
I am visiting him, as one visits a grave, and I have brought him a flower, white and blooming in my grasp, its petals dropping as I walk closer to him. It looks like an oleander, beautiful and poisonous, but that can’t be right. My sister Alana is with me and she takes photos as I place it softly on his chest.
We leave him and walk inside the long-abandoned home. A waning sun shines through the hall windows, and dust glitters in its beams. We wave our hands in front of us, sending the dust on a dance through the air, and clear a path to the smallest room in the house, the one that was mine for most of our years here. My sister and I sit next to each other on the bed and look through the photos we’ve taken. Then something captures my attention. When I zoom in for a closer look, I see that Reid’s eyes are open, and he’s looking directly at the camera.
I nearly drop the phone. We jump up and run back to the tree to where he’s still sitting, his eyes now wide and focused. My breath catches in my throat. They are a beautiful shade of pale blue.
We swoon over him, taking photos and capturing videos. My dad comes out from the house in his wheelchair and places Reid on his lap, spins him around the pool, looks into his eyes. Then Aaron is there, holding him in the crook of his arm. Just like at his birth, only this time Reid is looking at him too, kicking and stretching his long arms up toward his father’s face. We invite the rest of our family and friends—the ones who held him seven months earlier—and the scene around the pool morphs into a party, everyone talking and laughing and passing Reid back and forth, celebrating that he is here.
Eventually the guests fade away. When the sun finally sets and just the two of us are left, sitting side by side, I sense that it’s nearly time for him to go. I don’t want to move, fearing that the tiniest shift will
