And at night, when the house is quiet, I write. Not letters anymore — just memories. Jasper teaching Clara to ride a bike. Jasper burning toast and trying to scrape off the black parts. Jasper standing in the doorway of the kitchen at midnight, asking if I wanted to watch The Iron Giant again.
Unlike typical elegies that beg to remember the good times, the author struggles with the burden of perfect memory. He fears forgetting the sound of Jasper’s cough or the specific shade of blue of his favorite pajamas. "My greatest terror is not that I will remember his death. It is that I will forget the exact pitch of his whine when he wanted more jam." on the death of my son jasper swain pdf