In public restrooms, I choose the handicap stall. It reminds me of Isaiah. With his condition, even five minutes alone in a bathroom was fodder for concerning and dangerous behaviors. He could not handle occupying a unit alone, and honestly, given the opportunity, he would have felt unsafe. We had our routine, trading privacy by facing the corner, often where the diaper station was installed.
The last year of his life, we read a book on Louis Braille for school. Isaiah was mesmerized by his story, the way he turned a tragic childhood accident into good, helping others with his invention of the blind language. I told Isaiah that would be his legacy. He would do something amazing.
I remember the time at his favorite restaurant when he discovered Braille etched on the side of the changing table. His eyes illuminated as he fingered the dots, gasping and showing me, so proud of his discovery. It was a good day. One of the few memories I have of the real Isaiah peeking through.
The morning we buried him (months after he passed, when the ground finally thawed), we ate there in his honor. I sobbed when I saw the Braille he once touched and pressed my shaking fingers across the same risen bumps as though it could connect me to him and that beautiful memory of my son without the darkness.
Later, the restaurant renovated. Breath abated when I entered the same stall, realizing they replaced the diaper station. I longed for him and that rare moment of connection. Instead, another piece of my son slipped away. Losing a child may be sudden, as it was for us. But it is also slow. The surrounding world forgets in increments, while we never could. Small things, like the swap of a changing table, strip more of him away.
In the handicap stall, I feel awkward sometimes, hoping I’m not inconveniencing a waiting patron, but it’s one way I hold on to Isaiah. Sometimes I see him, head turned towards the wall to offer privacy, waiting for me to give the all clear while I search for Braille in his honor.