reviews 174 or many years—a generation, almost—I refused to read books in which children died. This was less an aesthetic stance than a survival strategy. Or no, not a strategy: that seems far too conscious. I was operating on more instinctive terms. My catalyst was the weightlessness I felt upon becoming a parent, a state for which I was (how could it be otherwise?) entirely unprepared. I had imagined family as the safest of harbors; it was the expected, the conventional choice. From the outside it appeared if not orderly than at least trackable, a series of quantifiable movements, bound by the rigidity of scheduling: feedings, naptime, baths, and bed. idea in review The Unthinkable Writing about the death of children David L. Ulin F The Unthinkable | 175 Then my wife got pregnant with our first child, and the illusion, projective as it was, began to grow increasingly complex. First there was the specter of my own upbringing, the polarities, the brittleness I did not wish to re- create. “I fear,” I wrote in a journal entry a few weeks before our son was born, “that I’ll become the fragile, alienated parent I rebelled against.” After the baby arrived, I discovered more encompassing concerns. Such as: How do you protect a small, dependent creature? How do you teach him to protect himself? Have a second child and the stakes grow expo nentially. “Please, please, let me keep them,” Marion Winik writes in The Lunch- Box Chronicle: Notes from the Parenting Underground, recalling the horror of losing, temporarily, her young sons in a market. I offer a version of this prayer every day. What Winik is addressing is the unspoken subtext at the heart of parenting: What if my children disappear? That she doesn’t quite put that fear into language only illustrates the depth of the conundrum. How do we reckon with a terror we are hesitant even to name? I don’t want to make the argument that discussing the death of a child is taboo, exactly; throughout human history, dead offspring have been an unavoidable currency of life. In Elizabethan England, as an example, 60 percent of children died before they turned sixteen. All the same, we no longer live in the sixteenth cen tury, and in any case, such percentages have nothing to do with grief. Much like love, sorrow remains a private matter, a condition we have no choice but to face on its own terms. “It occurs to me,” Marisa Silver writes, “that a child is something that gets stolen bit by bit. A two- year- old dissolves into a five- year- old, and no pic ture can adequately bring back the feel of him, the sound of his voice, and all the intangible qualities that made him himself at that moment. A ten- year- old becomes fifteen, then seventeen. Then he slips out of your life altogether.” Even in the best of circumstances, in other words, we raise our children so they can move on. Here we see one reason I avoided works involving dead or dying children: perhaps by refusing to acknowledge such a possibility, I might also deflect the small daily erasures of parenthood, of family—or hold 176 | David L. Ulin them in their place. Please, please, let me keep them: for me, these are the emotional stakes of raising kids. As to why this is, in part it is my weakness. In part it is the certainty that I would be incapacitated by the claustrophobia of grief. “My brain burns,” Naja Marie Aidt mourns in When Death Takes Something from You Give It Back; “it cannot get these extreme opposites to fit together; it cannot get this information to form a sequence, one story, the story we will have to live with for the rest of our lives.” The author is referring to the death of her son Carl Emil, who jumped from a fifth- story window while high on psilo cybin; he was twenty- five. My son—the child I was once so wor ried I might alienate—is also twenty- five now, and when he was nineteen and twenty and twenty- one and twenty- two...