Someone once explained the existence of "ghosts" to me as the memory of a significant event in a life recorded in the matter around it, in the molecules of the walls, the ground, the furniture, the trees. Sort of like sound on a tape.
Everything is, after all, made from the same stuff. We are a part of our world as much as the plants and the dirt are, as much as we distance ourselves with our houses and clothes and computers and things.
George is engraved into me, his father and every atom around us. In his tiny life he made a huge impact on us that didn't end with his death. He brought more love with him than I ever thought possible, more sadness than I thought I could manage and connected me to a whole new life of shared experience, support and friendship. George is haunting us. Isn't it wonderful.