Kyle, my husband of 12 years at the time, drove the same road to daycare each day. Every rut in the pavement, stop sign, and tree all memorized in the routine early morning hours. However, on July 7, 2014, on a sweltering hot day in Ridgefield, Connecticut, he experienced a momentary lapse of prospective memory. As the day unfolded, our only son, Benjamin, was gone. Instead of turning left at the end of our road, Kyle turned right that morning, as his habitual memory guided him to the coffee shop and then to work. A normal day ensued for Kyle while Ben lay in the back seat of his car all day, ultimately succumbing to hyperthermia.
I remember Kyle blowing raspberries on Ben's stomach that morning, then bringing him on his hip into the bathroom where I stood looking into the mirror at what I thought to be the happiest family alive. I brushed back Ben's blond hair, which was ruffled from a lazy night's sleep. He pulled away in an independent boyish manner while I ran my hand down his chubby leg. Had I said, "I love you"? I will never be able to uncoil that memory from my brain. I thought we had so much time ahead of us.
