I Carry Him Now
Essays for Owen
A private collection of writing from my first summer without my son, gathered into a book for myself and loved ones.
Read “And Then a Little Longer” below, or open the selected essay in Google Drive: PDF · EPUB. The PDF preserves the page design; the EPUB lets you adjust the text in an e-reader.
In the photograph, I’m holding the cardigan Dan’s sister Kimi hand-knit for Owen.
Where the writing began
In July 2022, three months after losing Owen, I took Megan Devine’s Writing Your Grief course alongside two dear friends. I was trying to find language for what had happened, and company among people who understood that grief needed room.
I wrote about our home, his belongings, the things people said, the places I wanted to take him, and the strange ways time moved after he died. There was love in all of it. There was anger, too, and longing, and the occasional absurdity. Those things did not arrive in separate, orderly chapters.
Gathering the pieces
Years later, I brought those writings together as I Carry Him Now: Essays for Owen. The collection has nine pieces and a foreword, with PDF and EPUB editions for private reading.
The work was to give the essays a home together: an order, space on the page, and a way to move through them without rushing. I wanted the book to feel cared for while preserving the voice of the person who wrote it.
These pieces belong to that first summer. I did not want to make them sound as though I already knew what would happen next, or give them a reassuring ending they had never asked for.
A book with a boundary
This is a private collection for myself and loved ones.
I’m sharing the story of making it here because it is part of my life and something I’m glad to have made. The essays themselves are intimate, and I’m keeping the full manuscript close.
Owen is my first child, and Rosie and Alec’s brother. Making this book is one of the ways I make room for him in our family.
A selected essay
I wrote this essay in July 2022, in the first months after losing my son, Owen. It is one of the pieces collected in I Carry Him Now, a private manuscript for myself and loved ones.
And Then a Little Longer
July 19, 2022
I’d strap you to me, and we’d climb up Saint Mary’s Glacier once more, our skin cooled by the brisk, thin air at ten-thousand feet, and pose for another photo by that impossibly calm and clear lake. We’d descend before dusk to rejoin our friends around the table that Tim built, sing “Happy Birthday” to Angelica, and feast again on lemon curd cheesecake.
I’d take you back to sweaty Savannah, where we’d stroll together from picturesque square to picturesque square, stopping for shade under the ancient and gnarled live oaks.
We’d travel again to the sandy beaches of Michigan, and watch as your dad skips rocks across the waves toward home.
We’d wind our way through the mountains to Strawberry Park, wintry in May, and soak in the gray-lit warm spring as the snow falls down on us in silent slow-motion.
We’d take a long drive through Eastern Wyoming’s lonely vistas, pointing out the pronghorns, then into the mystic Black Hills. I’d hold you up to marvel at the suggestion of Teddy Roosevelt’s eyeglasses.
Then we’d go home. I’d take you to your quiet nursery, where your daisies and your bears are waiting. I’d show you all your things, so carefully selected by so many people who loved you before you were even born. We’d rock together till you fell asleep, and then a little longer.