One year later

April 4 marks one year since I buried a nine-year-old. He was not a child I parented, though in our neighborhood we all parent each of the children at times. We are a village. Yorick was not my birth child, but I met him when he was a little over a year old, and I watched him grow for the next eight years. He was a force in our neighborhood who vibrantly emoted over every occasion. He let out a mind-piercing shriek that reverberated throughout the neighborhood whenever displaying any emotion. This kid would wander in and out of our house, knowing exactly where we kept all the toys, craft supplies, and (most importantly) snacks - helping himself to all of them with the gusto of a self-assured child. He had the best tips in Breath of the Wild, and we talked about our eager anticipation for the release of Tears of the Kingdom. Every summer, he would bring me not-quite-ripe vegetables that he had picked from my garden, so proud to show me, “Kate!! Look what you grew!”

I say “I buried” him because I officiated his celebration of life and burial. I was given the honor of guiding our community through the initial stages of grief. I had not officiated any type of service in my adult life, but his parents wanted someone to lead the services who loved Yorick and didn’t mind public speaking - I fit the bill.?

Yorick and his sisters were and are close friends of my children, now nine and thirteen. Our families live a few doors down from each other. We go camping together.? Our children play (and fight) like siblings. Together with a third family in our neighborhood, we have created a tight-knit community that has each other's backs.?

We are nearing the first anniversary since the world fell apart. A year since my dear friend sat helpless on the floor cradling her baby, who had just collapsed into her arms, praying to the universe that she was having a bad dream. A year since my dear friend tried desperately to revive his son, who had hours before appeared healthy, while they awaited emergency services. A year since I missed a frantic middle-of-the-night phone call while I slept in my hotel at the NABCEP conference, several states away. I would depart the conference early after learning the news, returning to my shell-shocked family to try to make sense of this tragedy that had come out of nowhere to disrupt reality.

My wife and I would spend the next week assisting the grieving family with tasks a parent never imagines tending to for their child - sharing the news with loved ones, selecting a burial plot, viewing Yorick’s body, planning the celebration of life. One week after I received the phone call, on April 4, I found myself in front of over 200 mourners - many of them children who had just seen a classmate in school eight days prior, then he died that night. I tried to find words to help each of them make sense of the tragedy.?

Later that day, a group of us gathered at a small, snowy cemetery where Yorick's body awaited us, lying in an open basket, wrapped in shrouds of white silk, covered in flowers, notes, and other biodegradable items that his friends and family had placed with him earlier that day. We added more of his favorite things: a wooden Yahtzee set, books, clementines, cherry tomatoes, Lemonheads, and Cheetos- so many Cheetos. We told stories, read to him, cried, and said goodbye as his little body was lowered into the ground, where it lies today, going back to the Earth.?

Over the past year, our village has tried to pick up the pieces and hold space for the grief that our friends experienced through this past Year of Firsts. The first Easter- when our neighborhood hosts an annual Easter egg hunt, a tradition Yorick relished every year. The first Fourth of July- when our neighborhood has a bike parade. The kids decorate their bikes with streamers and smoke bombs and ride around the block - a ride that Yorick always tried desperately (and successfully in the past couple of years) to win, no matter how many times we adults insisted that it was NOT a race. The first birthday- one his twin sister celebrated by herself for the first time. Then Halloween, then Thanksgiving, then Christmas - triple gut punches of grief, as the family, left hollow by his absence, celebrated these holidays as a family of four for the first time.?

As we approach the first anniversary of his death, I prepare to go to the NABCEP conference again. I feel my body tense remembering the disbelief I felt as I squatted on the floor just outside the lecture I was attending, listening as my wife told me the unthinkable news. I remember the numbness two hours later, as I compartmentalized the grief while presenting on the importance of O&M in solar. I remember the decision not to tell my fellow panelists - Kyle Bolger , Karo Fernandez , Brian Mehalic , Marquis Matthews - before the talk and not having the energy to tell them after. I remember my heart breaking when my amazing friend, Amanda Bybee , texted me to see how the panel had gone - her child had played on Yorick's soccer team, and I knew I needed to call her and assume the role of News Bearer.?

I remember the helpers: the angel working at the convention center who offered me tissues that morning outside the lecture as I tried to make sense of the impossible things my wife was telling me on the other end of the phone. That afternoon, he ran up to me and handed me a note: “I just wanted to say you are one of the strongest people I’ve ever seen in my life! I heard and saw that what you are going through is extremely hard, yet I've seen you put that aside for now to get your work done and present. That's true courage and strength! You've inspired me in those moments. I'm incredibly sorry for whatever’s happening. I don't know if you're religious, but I'm praying for you.” My NABCEP support group - Emmitt Muckles , Ryan Mayfield , Preston Booker , Justine Sanchez , Jason Fisher , Stephen Kane , Wyatt Briest - who held space for me as I wept, feeling so far away from my family and wanting nothing more than to hold my children. The friends from my children’s school who wanted to help but didn’t feel like they knew the grieving family well enough, so they brought dinner to our family, knowing the work that we were doing.

On the first anniversary of Yorick’s death, we will celebrate his life again - a life cut short by an undetected tumor that rapidly grew atop his thymus, wrapping itself around his little trachea, finally constricting it suddenly one night while his helpless parents sat by, knowing only that their baby, who had been fine that day, who was having symptoms of asthma, who couldn't have been saved even if they had known he was sick, was slipping away before their eyes. We will remember his laugh. We will remember his shriek. We will sit by his grave and tell stories and remember his light. And, even though we are hurting, we will try to reflect that light out into the world.?

Why am I posting this? I want to share Yorick’s brightness with the world. I want my community to know about this bright little soul who touched my life and whose passing has left an indelible impact. I want others to know in the hopes that you are touched by his light as well. I want to remind people how fleeting life is. I want to inspire folks to be grateful for the blessings they have.

Now, if you are able, go hug someone you love.