David did not survive.
My son had called me that afternoon.
That’s the part that still hurts in a strange, ordinary way.
We hadn’t discussed anything important.
He asked whether the squirrels were still stealing tomatoes from my backyard.
I complained that one had become so bold he practically waited for me to serve him breakfast.
David laughed.
Then he told me Jeffrey had learned the word “dinosaur,” although it sounded more like “di-no-roar.”
George had discovered peanut butter and had tried spreading it on the television.
We laughed about that too.
Before hanging up, David said, “Love you, Mom.”
I said, “Love you too.”
Those became the last words I ever spoke to my child.
Four days later, I buried him.
Jeffrey and George were only two.
Far too young to understand why everyone around them kept crying.
George repeatedly asked when Daddy was coming home.
Jeffrey spent much of the funeral clutching one of David’s old toy cars.
