Months ago, I realized my sonwould die, and the certainty left me weakfor days. A pitin the lower-right of my abdomen, like a holewhere all truths must be born.Whenever I have felt such certainty from this place, I have neverbeen wrong. The first time this partof my body awoke, I was eight and awaremy barn cat had died. All morning I searchedthe different air, and I found him mewlingat the bottom of a rusted barrel where he hadhidden himself away. I carried him home, offeredhim water and blankets, only for him to diea few hours later. Several other instances havecome and gone, and I am always right. This timethe truth comes to me in a repeated dream, wherethe beginning is always different. Sometimesmy son appears as the toddler form of the babyI now hold, knowing the world on two wobblylegs. Sometimes he appears as a beautiful, ganglyyoung man with the thinnest veil of hairon his chest, too dark for his pale skin. Then comethe series of causes: leaning in too close, running,a fall, pure drunkenness—and finally, the partthat always comes: the deep, foggy diveinto the pit of a pool, never deep enough to resemblethe pit I now carry like a red-hot appendix. His bodylike a ball in the foggy water and the certaintythat waves high like the moon I wish would fall. I awakeand hold onto my son like it will undo all the thingsI’ve seen. I pray into his neck to go to quieter places—places not quiet with the loss of my little boy,where I leave him flowers and toys and visithis room, surrounded by those I love who are alsocolored with grief. I hide in his warmth, here and now, and praythe rest will be washed away with the bedsheets.