{"content":[{"text":"Page 2","bbox":{"left":0.876307,"top":0.034545,"width":0.04815400000000014,"height":0.015871000000000003}},{"text":"Faded Memories","bbox":{"left":0.201797,"top":0.047691,"width":0.17584299999999997,"height":0.024634000000000003}},{"text":"I remember the first time I realized that my \n sense of my son, Jeremy, was beginning to fade. \n I was losing his smell, the exact color of his hair, \n the tone of his voice when he said, “Oh, Mom,” \n the feel of his arms around me when I got a too- \n seldom sixteen year-old hug. \n Until my son’s death, it had never occurred to me \n that I knew him through all of my senses. I \n believe the profound sense of loss I've \n experienced results in part from this total cut- \n off from his being. \n It’s not just that I can’t physically see him, but \n the essence of who he was is gone.","bbox":{"left":0.090196,"top":0.097132,"width":0.392718,"height":0.24044500000000002}},{"text":"Had I had warning that a three-quarter ton pick- \n up truck was going to run head-on into my son’s \n Toyota Celica, I would have long before bought a \n camcorder and taken hours of audio and video. \n Lights. Camera. Action. The opening scene is me \n yelling, “Can you quiet down a little? You're \n sounding great, but those drums are going to drive \n the neighbors crazy.” No answer.","bbox":{"left":0.564542,"top":0.097889,"width":0.402327,"height":0.14802099999999999}},{"text":"Next scene. In his room, head-set on, eyes closed, \n tongue showing, intensity high, drumsticks alive \n with action. \n Next scene: At the soccer field. I’m feeling the \n pride of watching my half-back move the ball down \n the field, demonstrating his years of experience.","bbox":{"left":0.564542,"top":0.26443,"width":0.40329800000000005,"height":0.11102500000000004}},{"text":"Perhaps that explains why I would often go to his \n room when I wanted to recapture a connection \n with him. Some nights I would sleep in his bed. I \n would wear his tee shirts. I would make a cocoon \n of an afghan that wrapped around him many \n times.","bbox":{"left":0.090196,"top":0.356097,"width":0.393438,"height":0.11102500000000004}},{"text":"Next scene: Middle of the night. I wake up to \n to go to the bathroom; pass by his room. I see the \n light from the computer screen. “Jeremy, you’ve \n got to go to school in the morning. Turn that thing \n off.” Fade out. Regrets. I didn’t have a camcorder.","bbox":{"left":0.564542,"top":0.393975,"width":0.40291299999999997,"height":0.09246500000000002}},{"text":"Somehow, I felt his energy about me. I smelled \n his smell. At other times, I’d get out the Ziplock \n bag; the one with snippets of his hair that was \n cut when they had to screw the “halo” in his head \n to secure his neck and severed spinal cord. I’d \n study the color of his hair, memorizing the \n shades of light brown.","bbox":{"left":0.090196,"top":0.485642,"width":0.39235000000000003,"height":0.12958599999999998}},{"text":"Often, just when I’m struggling with trying to \n remember the details, the minute details, I’ll have \n one of those experiences. It’s something that I’m \n hesitant to tell anyone about, partly because it \n feels so private and partly because I fear I won’t \n be understood.","bbox":{"left":0.564542,"top":0.50496,"width":0.400474,"height":0.11102600000000007}},{"text":"And the sounds? Only one. I found a cassette \n tape that he had recorded himself accompanying \n a favorite band. I listened to that for hours, eyes \n closed, trying to capture the vision of those \n moments. Although my behaviors might seem odd \n to some, the fear of fading memories eased.","bbox":{"left":0.090196,"top":0.633748,"width":0.397951,"height":0.11089900000000008}},{"text":"I’ll be sleeping, and he’ll come to me. \n Instantaneously my senses take in his presence; all \n of who he is. I feel the weight of his body against \n me as we hug. I see his eyebrows that almost, but \n not quite, meet. I smell that smell that is his \n alone. I hear his voice, oh so familiar. I find \n myself surprised that he is so real. I used to \n awaken disappointed that it was “only” a dream.","bbox":{"left":0.564542,"top":0.634506,"width":0.40466199999999997,"height":0.14802000000000004}},{"text":"Tom Robbins, in his book Jitterbug Perfume, says \n “Death is impatient and thoughtless. It barges \n into your room when you are right in the middle \n of something. It doesn't even bother to wipe its \n boots.” True. I was in the middle of parenting my \n only child. Death not only left the dirty mess of \n grieving for me to clean-up, but I had no warning.","bbox":{"left":0.090196,"top":0.763293,"width":0.399044,"height":0.12946000000000002}},{"text":"Today, nine years after his death, I treasure \n these infrequent experiences. While I don’t \n understand it, and I have no explanations, each \n time it happens I believe I have spent a brief time \n in the presence of my son.","bbox":{"left":0.564542,"top":0.801046,"width":0.40321799999999997,"height":0.09246500000000002}},{"text":"I thank God I don't have to rely only on faded \n memories. ~Judi Simmons Estes,Prairie Village, Kansas \n In Memory of my son Jeremy \n @2011 by TCF of Ottawa County","bbox":{"left":0.564542,"top":0.912031,"width":0.3889539999999999,"height":0.06880699999999995}}],"images_bbox":[],"images_bbox_not_text_overlap":[]}