• • •

John stood at the window, staring out at the small backyard. Still green, the grass. Soft enough to slide in, to fall, to roughhouse. It was almost dark, and the floodlights came on automatically, illuminating the leaves that were starting to turn. Only a few fell as he watched. He’d never stood in that spot before; he’d been out back a million times, of course, playing with his son, looking at the sunset with his wife, or grilling on the Weber balanced on the edge of the lawn. His path was practically worn on the carpet runner beneath his feet. But stand there, like a piece of sculpture, like a new piece of furniture in the room? Never.

That was why Carrie, who’d come down to the kitchen for a glass of water, approached him slowly, calling his name, then coming around and searching his eyes as if they could tell her what he was looking at. And they did, to some degree, when she saw the tears hovering.

“John?” she said.

“Look at that,” he said and sniffed.

Her eyes followed his gaze. Even from up there, above the path, in the waning twilight, she could make out bits of color and shine—blue ribbons flapping parade-happy in the breeze, red Mylar balloons, darker shapes on the ground.

“I’ve seen them on the highway a million times,” he said.

Carrie nodded.

“But the teddy bears,” he said. “All those little stuffed animals. What good does it do? Why do they keep bringing them?”

“Well—”

“I keep imagining them…wet. With him, you know? Because he died without any toys,” he said, almost choking on the words.

Carrie blinked, tried to focus. These were the kinds of things she’d said to John in the early weeks, months. He doesn’t have his toys. He doesn’t have his juice. He doesn’t have his crib mobile. Was it more sad or less to picture a teddy bear on the silty bottom with Ben, plush paw clasped in his hand, its button eyes as flat and expressionless as fish?

She squeezed his hand. “We should donate them,” Carrie said. “To the church day care center.”

“Yes,” he said.

“We’ll do it together.”

She got her coat and grabbed a roll of white garbage bags from under the kitchen sink. As they walked down to the path, the wind picked up, and the plastic edge of the bags lifted, flapping behind her. She didn’t try to stop it. A year ago, she would have rerolled it, tucked it under her arm.

The shrine grew larger and shinier as they approached. So much silver. So much blue.

“They didn’t know him,” he said.

“What?”

“None of these people. If they’d known him, they would have left baseballs and bats and hockey sticks.”

“Yes,” she said. She reached for his hand, but he pulled it away. “John—”

“Let’s just fill the bags, okay?”

They worked side by side until it was done. The bags were full but light. They carried them back by twos in each fist. John was about to put the bags in Carrie’s trunk, then thought better of it. He let them down gently in the foyer to sit overnight. The tops of the bags, ungrasped, fell open a little as he started to walk away, releasing a small plastic sigh. John turned back. He leaned down and spread each bag open further, as if offering them some air.