My son and I, next to each other on the couch, under a thick blanket. He’s sick and reading a book about the octopus. I’m knitting. “Hey,” I say, “should I just put a huge white stripe right in the middle of this hat?” He looks over. “That would be cool!” I suppose I’m doing what every parent longs to do–capture the ethereal presence of my child, make it concrete, make tangible his existence for all eternity. Why is there a white stripe in this hat? Because my son, Iain, is alive, here, next to me.

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