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I wrote this around Halloween after Jordan had been gone about two years. I still like to go back and read it whenever I miss him, just to remind myself that he is still around, part of me and everything around me, everything he loved.

My youngest son, Jordan, was the darling of our family from the day he was born. His older siblings adored him and diligently looked after him. Since Jordan was possessed of a sweet, trusting disposition, I was always rather protective of him as well. He was truly Nature’s blessing from minute one, and we all joyfully doted upon him. He grew in the warmth of his adoring family to be a wonderful, unselfish, and truly loving little boy. And in return, Jordan often told us that someday he would take care of us, too.

On June 27th, 2003, only six weeks before his eleventh birthday, our beloved Jordan was killed in a tragic accident. Although we know he is gone, Jordan seems bent on proving otherwise, and determined to keep his promise to look after his family. Since his death, we have seen many signs that Jordan has kept his word; he seems not to have ever really left us. Several times since Jordan has been gone, things have happened that showed us that Jordan is still around. He watches over all of us, but since I have apparently had the most difficulty coping with his death, Jordan seems to have appointed himself Mommy's Personal Guardian.

One morning, when I was late for work, my keys had seemingly vanished from the kitchen table where I’d dropped them the evening before. Frantically, bordering on a full-blown panic attack, I was in the process of destroying the kitchen in search of my keys when I felt more than heardJordan's voice whisper to me in the center of my head: "They're under the washing machine, Mom!" It was as if he was annoyed with me that I had not been listening to him before. I could just see him rolling his eyes at me as he often did when he was frustrated. Of course, with some probing beneath the washer with an unfolded shirt hanger, I found the keys exactly there, near to the back of the machine. Apparently the cat had played cat-and-keys with them, and knocked them far beneath the washer, where I never would have even thought to look until the day I moved away from that house.

One night nearing my first Christmas without Jordan, I had another dream of him. He was playing in the snow, and he told me that I should not accept a friend’s invitation to spend Christmas Day with them at their home. "It’s going to snow like crazy…you’ll get stuck!" Jordan told me in the depths of my dream. This snowstorm seemed highly unlikely since we were in the throes of an unusual heat wave in December. Three days before Christmas, the thermometer climbed to seventy degrees. But regardless of the possibility of the men in white coats coming for me, I warned everyone I knew, prompting either giggles or pitying glances.

Jordan was right. On Christmas Day just before dinner, it snowed so heavily in our town that the power went out for eighteen hours; people lacking the benefit of four-wheel-drive were snowed in for days. It had not snowed on Christmas day in Tehachapi in thirty-four years.

And so my life went, with little reminders here and there that my little boy was still with me, and looking out for me. But the most profound one was in June, seven days prior to the two-year anniversary of his passing.

I was preparing for a dinner party with some friends. Feeling depressed all day, missing Jordan, I was reticent to go. When my friends arrived to pick me up, I attempted some excuse, but they would hear none of it, and chose to wait while I made ready. I was absently listening to my friends' happy chatting, ironing a linen tunic, the iron set at "scorching hot", when I set the iron down and reached for my drink. While my head was turned, someone grabbed my right wrist and yanked my arm upward so sharply that I nearly whacked myself in the face. Startled, I looked at the iron, which had fallen flat, directly where my hand had been resting seconds before. As I stared, the fabric of the window bench (my makeshift ironing board) began to smoke and burn, so hot was the iron. I spun my head to look for my roommate, my older son, or anyone who would have been standing close enough behind me to grab my wrist like that. But my friends were all in the kitchen, enjoying their drinks, at least thirty feet from me. My roommate laughed and asked me why I was hitting myself; he had seen it happen. My wrist still tingled, as skin will when touched firmly. Wrapping my left hand around my right wrist, I suddenly felt so good, so happy! Since Jordan had been gone, one of the things I missed the most about him was his scent, the smell that is unique to every child. But as I stood there holding my wrist, I would have sworn I caught the scent of his hair for just a moment.

My Jordan still looks out for his mommy; I see subtle evidence of it nearly every day. My only wish is that, someday, he will let me see his face, his beautiful eyes, one more time.