He didn’t scream or throw things or ask why the world had taken his dad away.
Instead, he became quieter.
Smaller somehow.
Like he was trying not to take up too much space.
Sometimes I’d catch him sitting on his bedroom floor holding one of his father’s old T-shirts against his face.
Sometimes he would stand in front of the window at night waiting for headlights that would never pull into our driveway again.
But there was one thing he refused to let go of.
A pair of sneakers.
Black with blue stripes.
Slightly scuffed even when they were new.
His dad had bought them for him just a few weeks before the accident.
I still remembered the way Andrew had run around the store wearing them, stomping his feet and shouting, “I can run faster now!” while my husband laughed.
After the funeral, those shoes became sacred to him.
