Dyan Taji

By the time Sean had turned nine, he had survived four deaths, and two near-misses.

When you are young--and I was 19-years-young when this little guy delivered his body from my womb--you birth your child without thinking about death. When he came out in silence, sans crying, I had no clue that, though he had indeed arrived, he was already gone. Neo-Natal teams were stars that day. 

My husband and I came home a week past birth to a quiet house. No fanfare.  No awareness on my part that we had dodged only one fatal bullet, of others, that were to intersperse my son's early days of living: Choking on a hotdog until unconscious. A collapsed lung. Dying twice during his heart surgery at 8-years-old.

We just came home, happy Sean was alive.  There were many gifts ranging from diaper service to rattle toys waiting in our quiet apartment.  Lovely gifts. But, a gift certificate for professional baby photos was the longest-lasting. 

The background photo within the accompanying photo is one of a dozen different images taken for that professional package. 

This image, with our baby's gaze wide-eyed, like he was witness to more than he could imagine in his baby brain, still sits on my desk.

The match to the little red shoe in the foreground is long gone, lost during one of our many moves over 48 years. Both the shoe and the captured image would mean nothing to anyone else if found on a downtown sidewalk. But I see in this little red shoe, the span of my life--from pre-adult to present.

And I am grateful to have the reminder.