The Day I Found My Deceased Son Begging on a Seattle Street Corner

The Shadow in the Mirror

The Seattle autumn wind was unforgiving, whipping through the canyons of glass and steel downtown skyscrapers. I pulled my black leather jacket tighter around myself, my other hand holding onto my nine-year-old son, Caleb. He was chatting happily, his dark green bomber jacket zipped up to his chin. It was a normal Tuesday, the kind of mundane afternoon I had cherished ever since my husband, Richard, passed away three years ago.

Suddenly, Caleb stopped. His hand slipped from mine as he stood frozen next to a rusted lamppost. He pointed a trembling finger toward a recessed alcove of a modern office building.

"Mom! Mom, look! Why does he look so much like me?"

I turned, expecting to see a child with similar hair or height. Instead, the breath was knocked clean out of my lungs. Sitting on a damp piece of cardboard was a young boy. He was shivering, dressed in a threadbare grey hoodie, his face smudged with dirt. But his face—it was Caleb’s. The same high cheekbones, the same warm hazel eyes, the same cowlick in his dirty blonde hair. It was like looking at a ghost.

The homeless boy looked up, his eyes widening as they locked onto Caleb. With trembling fingers, he reached inside his collar and pulled out a tarnished pewter locket. He popped the latch, holding it open toward us. Inside was a tiny, faded vintage photograph of twin babies. Engraved on the inner lid were the words: "To our eyes, I see they are twins."

My knees buckled. I recognized that locket instantly. It was a family heirloom Richard had supposedly lost the week our twins were born. The week the doctors told me our second son, Cody, had died in the delivery room.

"No, that's impossible,"

I whispered, my voice cracking. Caleb looked up at me in sheer terror.

"Mom, what does this mean?"