A remem­brance tat­too I had done a few months after the acci­dent. Designed and inked by Aaron Goodrich of www​.newrose​tat​too​.com

Five years ago today one of my clos­est friends and her 23-​​month old daugh­ter were killed in a head-​​on col­li­sion on high­way 26.  Janene was dri­ving to a base­ball tour­na­ment with her 11-​​year old son, Quintin, and also one of Quintin’s team­mates, Tyler,  and her lit­tle girl, Abi­gail. Her old­est child, Cyn­thia, was at home with her hus­band. They had plans to join up with them later at the game.

We don’t know why the other dri­ver veered into her lane and hit her head-​​on, instantly end­ing her life. Lit­tle Abi­gail and also Tyler died at the scene.  Quintin was life­flighted to the hos­pi­tal that I now work at where he was treated for bro­ken bones (thank­fully no inter­nal or head injuries).  Another man in another vehi­cle that was also involved in the acci­dent died later from heart fail­ure that is believed to be a result from the acci­dent. He was in his thirties.  

Five peo­ple died on this morn­ing, five years ago.  It was the hard­est day of my entire life and con­tin­ues to be the longest grief of my life.

Tonight I’ll take Cyn­thia and Quintin to Dairy Queen for ice cream. I am grate­ful they have remained reg­u­lars in our house­hold and I see them and their dad often.

When­ever either of her chil­dren reach a mile­stone or accom­plish some amaz­ing feat––like their per­for­mances in this past school the­ater sea­son!!!–I swell with  moth­erly pride  mixed mixed with grief and a sense of pro­found loss.

Janene should be here. Abi­gail should be here.  They left us too sud­den and too soon. I think it every time. And some­times, under cover of dark­ness in the the­ater audi­to­rium, my eyes will fill with sad­ness that threat­ens to spill out into the open. A wave of grief will rise up from some­where that requires my full atten­tion to not burst into deep sobs. Then, it will sub­side. Breathe,  I’ll tell myself. Breathe.

Hold it. Hold it.   Hold it. 

Today is a Hold it kind of day.  Five years. Has it really been five years already!?

I miss them still.

One day I will write a book on death and loss and I will ded­i­cate it to them and it shall be the best book I’ll ever pen in my writ­ing life. For it will be the stuff of breath­ing, hold­ing and let­ting go and all the essence of life and death and what hap­pens in between and under­neath. Death is the ulti­mate judge of life hav­ing been lived mean­ing­fully. Is this true or untrue? Who gets to decide what’s mean­ing­ful and pur­pose­ful and if we’ve lived out loud?  Why do some die tragic and too soon while oth­ers live long? Why do some escape tragedy while oth­ers seem fated to meet an untimely end?  These are the kinds of ques­tions that linger and I will let them  steep a few more years. Then, when it seems they’ve reached their peak,  I will pour it  all out in ink from the bar­rels of grief that are kept under lock in the cel­lar. I won’t hold it any longer.

But that day is not today. Today it is five years later. Janene and Abi­gail are gone and though they will both always be remem­bered, they are missed.

*****

More on Janene and Abigail:

• One of My Best Friends Died Today
• A Mourn­ing Continues
• I Still Miss Her…
• The Blues of Janene and Abi­gail : One Year Later