Field Notes for a Son I Didn’t Know

Day 4
She turned down the radio when a child sang.
Didn’t say why,
But her fingers curled against her thigh
like they were remembering
how to hold a smaller hand.
I didn’t ask.
I just watched her breathe through it—
like someone trying not to wake a ghost.

Day 36
There’s a frog sticker on her laptop.
She says it’s been there for years.
I say it’s peeling.
She says, “I know.”
Her voice goes low—
the way it does
when he’s just passed through her memory,
muddy shoes and all.

Day 77
She took out an old shirt
tucked in the back of a drawer.
Didn’t wear it,
just held it,
knees to chest,
like it wasn’t done holding him.
I made tea,
sat beside her.
She leaned in without speaking.

Day 98
She never looks at a schoolyard—
not directly, anyway—
but when a bell rings,
her posture changes.
Her hand finds mine,
and I don’t speak.
We walk until the sound thins,
until we’re somewhere quieter,
where memory can’t echo
in the laughter of children.

Day 130
She said his name
like a match being struck.
Quiet, but unmistakable.
She gave it to me
like a fragile thing.
I held it with both hands.
Promised not to drop it.
She watched me
like she almost believed I wouldn’t.

Day 158
She laughed at something I said,
then bit her lip.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
“I just… he would’ve liked you.”
I kissed her knuckles.
She didn’t cry,
just stared at the ceiling
like it held his face
in its haphazard patterns.

Day 163
I asked if she thought
he would’ve liked Prague.
She said he loved bridges,
that he hated soup,
and he never learned to whistle.
I listened.
That night,
she didn’t dream of him,
but I think I did—for both of us.

Day 208
She showed me a photo—
not of him,
but of her,
holding him.
Smiling without looking at the lens.
I told her she looked
like someone building a shelter
with her own body.
She said, “I tried.”
And I said, “You did.”