We don't know and we don't know and we don't know. That is the thing. In our arms we carry him and we wait, hold our own breath in expectation of that same breath taking hold of his fragile frame, water sliding gently from his hair, light glistening on his sun-brushed skin. He has been lifted from the depths, where (at least it seemed) he was pursued by every manner of aquatic assailant. We begin to hope that he was not afraid, that the water felt good as it enveloped his bird-boned body, slipped around his limbs as he moved through it in those last moments--innocence sublime. But we push these thoughts away, for they appear to us as the thoughts of the hopeless. The resigned. They are not. They are the thoughts of the eternally present. The serene. This grounded mother of all in her perfect peace. We hold in our arms the whole of our love, and it is the holding--the holding--that crushes us.