Before My 19-Year-Old Son Died, He Donated His Heart to an 18-Year-Old Girl—Then Her Mother Handed Me a Letter: “Mom, There’s Something You Need to Know About Her”
when he wanted something.
The way he pushed his hair back when drawing.
His annoyance when I asked whether he had eaten.
Those things stay.
Other details fade.
That used to frighten me.
Now I think forgetting small things is part of living forward.
I do not owe Caleb perfect archival memory.
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