# 21 I remember

Set your timer, and begin. Write: I remember...

Choose something. Anything. The more ordinary, the better: shoes. Kitchen table. Garden hose. Bookshelves or teapots or underwear drawers. Choose anything as your subject.

I began this narrative on a different tangent, writing about Ben's summer in New Mexico when he was 22 years old, 18 months before he took his life.

Then, my 18-month old grandson burst into my bedroom and demanded his Nana give him her undivided attention. Well, it is Tuesday and it is the day that I take Baby Henry for the morning. So, I tumbled out of bed, found some clothes and headed downstairs for two hours of books, music and play.

Well, something happened. Sarah turned on Henry's pre-recorded music class on the big screen in our living room. The lovely teacher started singing the songs I remember from my own children's toddler music classes. Suddenly, it wasn't Henry in my arms, it was Benjamin. I felt both intense grief and a bittersweet joy as my heart encountered this flashback:

When Ben was 18-months old, we had been invited to join a special "under-age" class by Sarah's teacher. It wasn't until we arrived for the first class that I understood why. One child, a little girl, had been born with no arms and no legs. This class was for her; the other children, including Benjamin, were there to make the class "normal" and to give the young child five playmates to sing and dance with.

As we marched around the room, the girl's mother carried her sweet bundle in her arms. As we bounced our children on our knees, the girl's mother bounced her little bundle on her knees. We sang together and the girl's mother clapped for her daughter.

Then, one class, as we all sat in a circle with the little girl lying on the floor beside her mother. Unprompted, Benjamin got up and quietly toddled over to her. He lay down right beside the rigid child, rolled over and hugged her tenderly. We all held our breaths. This loving gesture was so unexpected that the music room went totally silent.

I will never forget this tender memory of my son. My beautiful, sweet, compassionate Ben.