The growing ghost

I'm struggling, sweating. It used to be easy to carry him, but now I can only do it for a finite amount of time. It's getting shorter, and shorter.

"Stop for a second", I tell him. "I want to remember this forever. What it was like right before you turned four." But he's gone, in a flash, running past me.

We're making ramps for our cars out of dirt. "Don't worry, mom. We can wash our hands at home." Since when does he tell me not to worry, and hatch the plan?

I think of when I placed my hand on his brand-new 7 lb body, on his chest to comfort him. "He calmed down when his mom came in", the doctors said. "I'm a MOM", I thought. I try to recall it, but I've already forgotten...

"Hold me mom", I carry him home. He's half my size now, and this is where I struggle...but knowing I'm on borrowed time, I push through. He turns into me, putting both arms around my neck, head nestling in. I try to memorize exactly this moment...they are getting fewer.

But it can't be captured, it is ethereal, a living loss, a growing ghost. Intangible, and can't be kept.

I try to remember what it felt like when he was a baby. I've already forgotten...



3.10.2020


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