Brief intro: many of you know I lost my oldest son to cancer in 2014. I’m still working through my grief about losing him; he died at OHSU in Portland, Oregon, one week before his 31st birthday. Recently I sketched a baby fist and it led me to this memory of my son’s life. When I write about him, I feel his memory lives on, and that, in some way, his life is being shared among even more people. Thank you for reading.
You may not believe this, but I can still remember the tiny closed fist of your baby hand, skinny fingers, against the cheek of your newborn face. Is it thirty-four and some fraction of years since I saw you first, my own son? And still the memory of little fist and cheek sticks to the inside of my brain. How oblivious you looked then, only intent on getting a few more hours’ sleep while it was possible, to catch up on those five last weeks of being in the womb that you missed out on by coming early.
Never let it be said you did not fight for life. For now, for now, for now, I hold onto that little fist-on-cheek memory of when you were mine to protect and love. And, love you, I still.