Sweet Saturday.

On Friday night, I found out that a man who was a family friend and whom I admired since I was twelve, a brilliant though troubled and flawed man, had died. I was sitting on a white blanket with multicolored snowflakes on it, with my journal, books, and pens around me. Josh had said I was adorable with my treasures spread out like that, ready to stay up late and have fun after an exhausting 56-hour week.

I cried that night and again in the morning when I had that awful moment of remembering. But I did pick up my pen again that night, and in the morning, I asked Josh to open the blinds. The sun poured in, casting the rippling reflection of the pond over my white wicker wardrobe. I layered on pajamas, and we went all went out to the balcony. I sat in the reclining chair and held Oliver while I had peanut butter fudge cookies (a Girl Scout knock-off) and Dr. Pepper. Josh sat at the mosiac-tiled bistro table with his vegetarian sausage, Diet Sundrop, and pink-frosted Pop-Tart. We stayed out there until my skin felt the prickle of impending sunburn.

I felt active, seeking life. We took quick showers. I put on my black swimsuit with white polka dots, my pink seahorse flips, and my pink terrycloth cover dress. I put a Tigger swim diaper on Oliver. We walked to the heated indoor pool.

This was only Oliver's second swim (the first was months ago when we first moved into our apartment), and we weren't sure what to expect. He took to the water immediately, smiling, pedaling, and splashing. One of us would hold him, and the other would swim alongside. Oliver would watch the swimmer's legs and kick. We kept swimming for almost an hour, Josh and I taking turns with the camera.

Oliver had trouble with teething later, but Josh picked up Panera. We started at the round black table in our dining space, but then, I looked through the sliding door and said, "Let's eat outside." So we brought out Oliver's bouncer and toys and ate at the bistro table, watching the geese. When Oliver was ready for bed, we all lay down as I nursed him, my arms around Oliver and Josh's arms around both of us, Oliver nestling close. We slept for a couple of hours before Josh took Oliver to his room and crib. And like John Green's Pudge in Looking for Alaska, "we realized over and over again that we were still alive" (241).