I became a mother when Riley was born. I became a poet when he died. His death and writing poetry are intertwined like the malformed vessels of his AVM and his brain—rooted, inseparable as a banyan and its host tree. If Riley hadn’t died, I would not be writing poetry. I wouldn’t have survived the tsunami of his death without that lifeline. In the hospital, when we were given the news that Riley would not survive his third bleed, a nurse whispered in my ear. I don’t remember what she looked like, but I remember her ethereal embrace and the way she placed my hair behind my ear, and whispered, “You’ve been given a gift.”

David’s birth was not guaranteed. Because my cervix was pre-cancerous, I was told by my doctor to get pregnant immediately. If the cancer spread, he’d remove my cervix and the baby, too, no matter how far along I was. David made it! My first-born child was full term and a wonder. By eighteen months he could read the alphabet and at two he was playing chess with my father, who called him “King David.” He was the happiest little guy, full of curiosity and bursting with love. David was so kind and gentle that I often said to my sister-in-law, “He’s too good to live.”