January 16, 2020
Warning: this post contains specific descriptions of death that may not be appropriate for children or sensitive readers.
Elliot, where are you? When you were two, we tried on shoes at a store in the mall. You ran off and left the store. I thought you would stay in the store, but you did not. You went into the mall. You were gone. It took so long to find you. I was afraid. I kept running around the mall searching for you. I ran to the security desk; it was so far away. When we finally found you, you had peed on the shoes.
You died on a cold October night when it seemed like we were about to face a long winter. You died alone in your closet, hanging from the closet rod on a belt that is exactly like mine, just a few inches shorter. We bought it with the blue suit I got you before the St. Louis debate tournament. That same suit is resting on your body.
I just noticed that my belt is not even real leather. You died hanging from something synthetic. Your death feels synthetic. It feels manufactured. You were so vulnerable. You were desperate. You were conned into thinking that your life had already been ruined—that you did not matter.
I remember conversations with you about school or work or robotics when you were ready to give up. You would say, “I’m on the freeway and I missed the exit.”
I would respond, “All you need to do is go down to the next one and turn around. You can get back.”
That was true then, but it is not true now. You can’t come back. Your body can’t get your soul back. The coffin is shut and sealed in a vault. Six feet of earth that I shoveled have been packed onto your body.
Can you somehow get to me when I stand next to that earth? I dream of it. I long for it, but Elliot I don’t want to feel your soul nearby. I want to feel your flesh, your life. I want your soul reunited with your body and I want to touch all of you.
The last time I felt you, we hugged before I went to bed. I do not remember if I touched your skin. I felt your weight and your warmth, but you were wearing a coat, and I don’t remember if I touched your hand, or your cheek, or your hair. Did I just touch your clothes? I remember the first time I touched your little purple body on the day you were born—so soft, so small and so warm. I also remember picking you up and squeezing you tight when I finally found you at the mall. I wish I could find you now.
