Today is the fourth anniversary of Kiran’s death. Sometime last summer we crossed the point where he had been dead longer than he was alive. I forced myself not to obsess about that singular points in time – after all what did it matter in the end.

Kiran enters our lives in many ways. On certain days his brother Ravi bears an uncanny resemblance to him. They share many mannerisms. There are those days when Ravi looks at pictures of Kiran playing with Tricia or me, and says “Kiran and mama” or “Kiran and daddy”. He has even learned to say “Kiran – brother”. And then there are those days like Newtowne, when your heart breaks, and all you can think of is the anguish of all those parents who have dead babies. You feel helpless, knowing that there is no consolation – just the passage of time, and that all one can do is stand by and bear witness.

My father also died this year. He had been ready for a while – almost since Amma died – he was 86 years old. I was at peace with his passing, except for the feeling that one more link to Kiran was gone. Appa was one of the people who bore witness to some of those eventful years of Kiran’s life. Kathy is probably the only other person in the world who lived through everyday with us. It has forged a connection that we feel more strongly as time moves on, though we do not always show it.

Kiran lived. Kiran mattered.