In my room, stacked with my yearbooks and binders for school, I carry a binder from my mom. It is a plain black binder, a white coversheet on the front that reads, “Alex.” Sleek. Modern. How he would have liked it. It is filled with photos, letters, and anything else that lets us salvage whatever we can of our memories. I keep the binder tucked away, along with the memories it contains, the ones I can’t bring myself to think about. Occasionally, I go through the binder from beginning to end. I immerse myself in the pictures of times that now seem fictional, making promises to myself to remember. My mom made the binder to honor a life taken far too soon, that of a son, brother, and friend. She is as strong as a warrior, but she can’t see that. Most of the time, I’m still shocked that we got through this nightmare, and I pray that my mom never has to go through a pain like that again. Because I like to lose myself in stories, I carry a book. Because I adore my pets, I carry fur on all my clothes. Because I am the child of grieving parents, I carry guilt constantly.