Mischievous Grin


 I don't want to think about the day he died. I don't want to hear the pain in his voice when he said, "It's just so hard." I don't want to feel my palms beating against his door as the alarm sounded and nothing moved on the other side, as I began to know and yet still hoped. I don't want to see the line of blood from the corner of his lips. I don't want to remember his death, though I do every day.  I want to remember his life.  

So today, I will tell you a story of his life, a moment I would have forgotten but for my compulsive picture taking and a photo that lives on a bulletin board at the bottom of the stairs where I see it every day. I love it because it is such a natural picture.  He didn't know I was taking it. His smile is pure authenticity. 

We were at an arboretum with the grandparents and cousins. The cousins, as usual, were inseparable, having a fabulous time.  Grandpa was along for the ride, and frequently would find a bench on which to rest.  The kids would discover him, eyes closed, resting, and invite him to the next thing to see.  

They decided to play a joke on Grandpa and ran ahead a bit. They arranged themselves, all four of them, on a bench, "asleep" for Grandpa to find them.  The older three were consummate actors, their faces blank with the feigned mask of sleep, but not Ryan. Ryan was tickled, his sense of humor piqued. And that is the image in the photo: three sleeping kids and Ryan's sweet face, eyes closed and his signature mischievous grin, his easy laugh just barely contained.  

This is an image to remember. This is my child, my joy, my beloved. This is a moment to reach for when pain and blood and cold flesh crowd into my days and haunt my nights: his life, his joy, his beautiful smile.  

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