When his mom called to tell me, her voice cracking and faltering, I could feel the heart in her chest breaking into more pieces then could ever be counted; more pieces than would ever be healed. His precious life, barely started, had an early expiration date that none of us anticipated.
I think about him every day. I think about the kind focus he gave to our conversation when we walked together. I was flattered by his youthful attention; I knew there was always something more alluring on the phone he kept in his pocket.
The leaf he plucked from the grass on our last walk, a maple leaf, as big as his hand, is pressed into my book of sonnets. I told him that day, with my usual wide-eyed sincerity, that I would keep the maple leaf all of my life. He teased me and laughed at my earnest vow. He doubted me. I did keep it, though, and when I open my book now to see the leaf, it’s dry and withered and threatens to break into more pieces than could ever be counted. But I won’t let it.