It happened quickly.
He became sick in the spring.
By the end of summer, he was gone.
Ethan understood death in the fragmented way six-year-olds do.
He understood his father was gone.
Then, every few months as he grew older, he understood it again in a different way.
For three years, I had been the person keeping Ryan alive for him.
Pictures.
Videos.
Stories.
Little memories.
But something happens when a child loses a parent that young.
Their memories begin fading.
Ethan once remembered Ryan’s laugh.
The way he smelled.
How he tickled him.
Specific moments.
Over time, those memories softened.
Eventually I could no longer tell whether Ethan remembered things himself or remembered me telling him about them.
During the previous month, he had started asking about Ryan more often.
What food did Dad like?
Was Dad good at soccer?
What did Dad want to be when he grew up?
