I have a photograph of my son at the park when he was a year old. He’s sitting on a small suspension bridge looking into the camera with a shy smile on his face. His hair hasn’t darkened yet into the deep brown he inherited from his mother. Instead, a sandy blond lock sweeps across his forehead and cast a pale shadow just above his stubby nose. I hold the picture in my palm while my wife uses a butter knife to pry open the back of a silver frame she found at TJ Maxx. She holds her breath as the slim metal blade slides in between the crevices of the cardboard and presses up against the fasteners that hold the matting in place. Of all the photos we’ve taken of our son, this one is her favorite, and she’s searched through the thrift markets and big-box stores for a long time to find the perfect frame.

I have to admit that the magic of the mounting is lost on me. I turn back to the photo and trace my index finger down one of my boy’s rounded cheeks. I remember how soft they felt when I would wipe away his tears with the tip of my index finger. He cried often then. It was an age of tantrums and minor hardships, but Mommy and Daddy could still fix most things with a hug, a kiss, and a soothing tone of voice.

Off camera, my wife was holding the shoe her little boy lost when she helped him ascend the netted ladder to the top of the bridge. She could lift him easily then. Every muscle and organ worked together perfectly to convince a toddler that he made the climb himself while Mom hoisted him up by the rear straps of his denim overalls. He laughed and clapped his chubby hands before plopping down onto his bottom and smiling. I had the camera in my hand. I took the picture. Nothing about this moment seemed special at the time. New parents take photos of everything.

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Three years later, his little voice was squeaky and hard for most other adults to understand. We were his interpreters to and for the world. His mother explained to the silver-haired lady behind the counter at Chick-fil-A that “fin flies” meant French fries. We have a picture of him eating them in the kitchen. His hair was a light brown at that point. The frame is gold. I can’t remember where we got it.

I know we bought it prior to his fifth birthday, before the day my son found his mommy lying on the bathroom floor in a puddle of blood and urine. He was sitting beside her when I came home from work. There was no time to wipe away his tears. In the waiting room of the E.R., I explained what the words “disease, dialysis, and replacement” meant. He nodded with a head full of dark brown hair, but I’m not sure if he really understood what I was saying. I didn’t take any pictures that night. Instead, we brought home a basket of fruit from the hospital and let the white mold that formed on an orange spread to the rest of the produce to show him how something bad can expand into the good things around it. The bottom of the basket turned black and decomposed into a mass of gelatinous slop. From it oozed a clear oil that permeated the granite countertop and stank for weeks. Watching fruit rot seemed easier than explaining the definition of “metastasized.”

My wife puts down the butter knife, pulls back the cardboard part of the frame, and directs me to place the picture section of the photo flat against the glass. Sunlight from the window reflects off the mounting and illuminates the dust motes tumbling to the ground like the grit inside an hourglass. We can hear our son humming as he colors in the next room. I help her shuffle back to the bed and wonder how much time the three of us have left together. She points to the frame and asks me to angle it away from the light, so she can see it better. On the other side of the pane, the only child we will ever have smiles back at us from the park.