On Teaching My Son How to Mourn

I tell him to touch his toes. He reaches for them in a squat.

He stabs them with his little fingers. One toe. Two toes.

Then we say our letters, spell out all the sounds we will deliver

because the death of a child is no small death.

I extend to him an open palm where he makes a fist

and slams it into my hand, a form, he wearily shouts,

is “a butterfly coming home!” We play “give me a five”

and continue swatting at the butterflies

until the sun goes down.

I don’t recall ever playing with my mother like this.

Late one morning, my son caught me pinching

the sides of my head, my face wet from so much crying.

He punched my arm, which knocked one hand off

of my face. Ashamed that he saw me, I laughed very loudly

which brought him concern and happiness. He never

mentioned it again and I never forgave myself.

My good son, running through the garden

in giggles. He is waiting for me to catch him. Once

I pretended to have fallen in a pit. I did not tell him

it was a grave. Very quickly he sprinted over and stood

beside my body. “Your hand!” he demanded.

Like a little father. I gave him my hand.

“Now, the other hand!” I give him the other.