"I found some of Ethan's shirts today", I told my husband. He looked up from his Cheerios, and stared at me, no expression on his unshaven face. "Um...what are you going to do with them?" he asked me.

Our 14 month old is growing out of his clothes; chubby little legs showing to the knee in his pants. I've saved all the boys' clothes in boxes, neatly marked "18 month pants" and "24 month sleepers". I pulled down a box, and began to look for things that would fit through the summer. Shorts, armless "muscle man" shirts, all in bright colors, some with Cookie Monster, sailboats, and bears adorning the front and back. I happily continued digging, looking for more goodies to dress my darling in for the summer. My hand reached, scrabbling at the bottom of the box......and pulled out a 2T blue sweatshirt, with a white collar and "Seattle Seahawks" running across the front.

I felt the dragon breathe his hot, fiery breathe in my face.....and in my heart. The shock felt like lightening running through me; It was Ethan's favorite shirt. I stood there, holding it, tears running down my face. I put the shirt to my face, hoping, praying, begging God that his smell would still be there, somehow, after almost four years. I inhaled deeply and almost screamed with disappointment; nothing but must and the smell of old clothes. I again brought it to my nose, and again, desperately hoping for some scent of him; some sign other than the memories of my mind, that he had lived, and was not a fading image in everyone's mind, like the curled edges of old photographs.

Further down in the box I found two more; a soft velour shirt with a mouse on the front, a little red button for its nose, and Mickey Mouse, a sweatshirt complete with ears on the hood, still in very good shape, bright colors and a happy Mickey face and nose on the front, staring at me, waiting.

I stood there a few more minutes, then put them in the washer, only to take them out before I started the water and soap. I couldn't bring myself to wash them, not the musty smell, the lint, the bits of this and that stuck to the collars. I carried them into the baby's room, and laid them with the other clothes to be folded. Perhaps Eli could use them, and so bring a reminder of a happier time, a happier and different family than the one I woke to each day.

Later, folding the clothes, another blast hit me as I again touched the first one. How could I have forgotten these? Small tokens of a short life. Favorite garb to start the day, to spill applesauce and milk on; to keep a white tummy and belly button warm during cooler days. Where in my memories were these shirts? I can see vividly now, Ethan raking leaves with his dad, wearing his Mickey hood, happily pulling at the red strings that pulled the hood closed. Had my mind shut me off from these until now, almost four years later, in an attempt to protect me from the pain ? The pain is real; alive, like a living, breathing entity that lies in wait for me, for my hand to do something so simple as to reach into a box.

"Um....What are you going to do with them?" he asked me. I have no idea. They will not go to Eli, our baby; he is not Ethan, no matter how I wish for my child again. I do not want to force my memories of one son on another, to look at him and remember his brother. He, with an almost identical face to the oldest brother he will never see, is enough of a daily reminder of our loss, without attempting to dress him like an Ethan-doll.

"Um...What are you going to do with them?" he asked me. I will hold them, and remember a different time, of sticky fingers and face, of hugs and wet kisses; of curly red hair laying against my cheek, and a small voice saying "Hold me in your yap, Mommy". I will save them, and hold them, and remember, waiting for the next time the Grief Dragon visits.

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