Englishman in PA

Yesterday, I woke up to the news that a childhood classmate had died in a car accident. He was driving his family in a large Chevy Suburban when another driver hit him head on. Both he and his wife died. But in the back of his car were his three boys. All alive. Injured, yes. But alive.

I couldn't get his face out of my mind. We attended the same elementary school and had classes together.  We may have said three words to each other during all of high school.  But what I remember about him was that he was truly kind. He wasn't the sort of boy who flicked boogers on a girl to make her scream. He was the kind of kid who would purposely avoid hurling a ball at the head of a chubby girl during dodge ball. And really, during the '80s, that pretty much the best a fat girl could hope for during gym class. Small acts speak loudly.

As a parent, I mourn his loss. He'll never get to see what his boys will grow up to be. He'll never see them graduate high school. Go on a date. He won't be there to wipe away their tears.

And as a daughter, I mourn for his sons. They have been robbed of two loving parents. They will grow up in a world of  "would have, could have, should haves."

And as a woman who has had to bury her own daughter, I can't imagine the grief of his parents. Burying not one child, but two. Knowing that they have have the weight of the world on their shoulders to help their grandsons somehow find sense in the senseless, peace within this violence, and hope when everyone's hearts are broken.