Baby Elliot
“We just had a baby,” read Brian’s Instagram IM. I knew his lovely wife, Lindsay, was pregnant, but I was not sure of the due date. Thrilled, I read on. The message contained the usual newborn details, including length and weight. But one stole my breath. “We named him after Elliot.” My heart shattered and expanded at the same time. It felt as if the universe had given me a cosmic gift through this gorgeous and profound gesture. I was gobsmacked, and instant tears poured. “Elliot was so important and special,” Brian typed, just hours after his baby Elliot’s birth in early April, “and it’s really meaningful to us to be able to name him after your son. We had been thinking about names, and it just felt right.” Overwhelmed did not begin to describe my state. Brian and Elliot met during our post-divorce days in Plano, Texas, at an elementary after-school program called Hunter’s Glen. They were fast friends and remained close through the wonder years and beyond, including school moves, neighborhood changes, and life disruptions. Elliot was an integral part of Brian and Lindsay’s past. Now, he would be intertwined with their future. What an extraordinary tribute to our Elliot Everett Wright. A week ago, Lindsay and Brian invited me over to meet their Mr. E, now nearly three months old. I felt my Elliot’s presence that day in all his vivid whimsy. I walked out the door and saw his E-threads again, high above in the crystal-blue sky, those wispy cloud scrawls and jet trails I’ve been tracking for years—not one, but two Es. 
E-threads
When I merged onto Highway 121 heading north, there were two Miatas beside me, one new, black, and sleek, the other vintage, red, and worn. Then one of his favorite anthems, “Fire” by the Ohio Players, blasted from my SiriusXM 70s radio. By then, I was paying attention. I stepped in the door, and there was Brian holding his precious bundle while navigating around their gentle, attentive dog. How I remembered those chaotic, multitasking days. Baby Elliot was an angel. That yummy, powdery-fresh baby aroma. The flapping, dimply-soft arms and tiny, tightly clenched fists. As I held him, he cooed and flirted with delight and curiosity before succumbing to his persistent eyelids. Heaven in my arms—and the peace of creation still sparkling in his knowing blue eyes. More than a name, Elliot is a present memory that lives on in the promise of a new life. I was grateful for this singular moment in time, but also aching for those first sacred hours holding my Elliot and my Ian. There is so much hope in beginnings. You're currently a free subscriber to Grief Matters. For the full experience, upgrade your subscription.
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