Once upon a time there was a cup of syringes on our kitchen counter. It contained every size syringe imaginable: Silver dollar 60mL behemoths down to the pencil-thin 1mL munchkins.

After Adelaide died I took her items scattered across the kitchen counter and placed them in her room.

“Let’s leave the syringes in the cup.” Miguel said.

So I did. Like a bouquet of clear, plastic, flower stems they sat in the cup in the corner of the kitchen. An enduring symbol of a life that was but also an unexpected source of grounding comfort years later.

A little girl in a bright pink swimsuit splashes in the water in front of me. She looks to be about five years old - the same age as my daughter - if she were alive. My daughter played in this pool too. I had stuffed her steroid-injected sausage-legs into the holes of a baby float.

Two little letters are all that separate have from had but it is so easy to get lost in the distance between them.

Are you breathing? Is your heart beating? Are you conscious and answering my questions? Well, then you’re probably ok.

This is basically of how I parented Jackson while Adelaide was alive.… By no means was he neglected - but the mental load scales definitely tilted toward Adelaide. How could they not? The thing is that my parental concern barometer doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to resettle.