This is my second year teaching art in southwest Philly. My students often ask about my daughter, Mira (not the older ones though… the 7th graders think I’m a chump). They want to know about her name, and how its similar to theirs (Amir and Amirah are very popular African American names these days. I must have over 20 students named Amir, Ameer, Ahmear, Imir, Amira, Amirah, etc.) Then I think about Amir… although I don’t have good stories for them… the ones I remember are like how on September 11th he rode his bike from the Upper West Side to the World Trade Center after he heard that it had been hit (if I remember correctly he wanted to take photos), only to arrive just as it was collapsing (he told me that was one of the stupidest things he ever did). And I can’t tell them about our high school antics, which generally aren’t suitable. Mostly though I just tell them that Amir was someone very important to me. It’s nice being able to hear his name so many times throughout my day, especially since they are such happy and vibrant children. Loss is a curious thing; some very small things bring on sadness, but more often they bring joy.
