This Is Us

Store in a Cool, Dry Place

A letter to my son

Dear Paul:

One of your sisters asks, “What happens if I shake his box?”

It is one thing to walk by the table with various keepsakes, notes, and photographs dedicated to the dead brother who came before her. It is quite another to realize the small, brown paper-wrapped box contains his ashes.

Even that term — ashes — works to ameliorate an unpleasant thought, to gloss over the act. His dead body—your perfect little dead body — was placed into an incinerator by someone and set on fire. This someone, who I will never meet.

I will never fully get over that I wasn’t there with you in that final moment, that I wasn’t introduced to the hospital employee with this sacred job. What remained of you was swept into a neat, tiny box and labeled with my name on it. And that is how you live now, that is how you stay, like a jar of turmeric or a glass bottle of probiotics.

We store you in a cool, dry place.

But I don’t know how to translate that to a 5-year-old without scaring her. So we talk about the small chunks we hear when we rattle it, and I say, “those are his bones! I bet he had strong bones like you.”

These days, she has become very absolute in how she determines who will live and who will die. If we see people outside without masks on, she says, “Now they’re going to have coronavirus and get dead!” Have I mistakenly taught her there is always a cause and an effect? I have tried not to do her this disservice. You had a hand in teaching me that cautionary tale. Sometimes the call is coming from inside the house.

Our brains are hardwired to survive, and without knowing what she’s doing, she’s trying to make sense and connect the dots of trauma, illness, accidents. She can’t quite digest your life and death, so she’ll often ask, “No but, how did he die? And why? I know his heart stopped but…” and exasperatedly trail off.

She’s a smart girl, but she doesn’t know where to land on you. Yesterday I was baking your cake and she said, “Yeah but, is he actually turning 8? Like actually, actually? Like 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8?” She’s still trying to figure out exactly who and where you are. I…