Our Son’s Final Wish Was to Watch the Westmere Hawks With Us. At Halftime, Creston Field Went Dark—and Caleb Whispered, “Mom, I Didn’t Ask Them to Do This for Me.”
For three months, I had been taking photographs of my son as if I could build a wall against time one picture at a time.
Breakfast.
Hospital bracelets.
Half-finished sandwiches.
Bad hair mornings.
The way he curled one foot beneath himself when he watched television.
The little crease between his eyebrows when he was concentrating.
If Caleb Mercer laughed, I reached for my phone.
If he fell asleep, I took a picture.
If he complained about the pictures, I took fewer for approximately twenty minutes.
Then I started again.
I told myself I was preserving memories.
I did not realize until much later that I had started watching my son’s life instead of participating in it.
My husband, Daniel Mercer, had developed his own version of the same problem.
