My first visit to the accident site.

This morning our wheels follow the path that yours did almost a year ago--with flowers in hand we trample over weeds and grass. We stare back at the road, silent. I try to comprehend what I'm feeling. Anger? No. Panic? No. It's disappointment. I had half expected to find you here, somehow, even if it meant twisted rubble and wailing sirens. I had half expected to see your car fly by, to yell STOP, to yell WAKE UP, to yell SLOW DOWN, to do something, anything, to make this end differently. But there's nothing here but concrete, and my heart sinks.

What happened here that night, almost a year ago? Somehow this simple road became more than a road--it became a spot of broken dreams, just as broken as your body. It twisted our lives like the metal of your car, instantly and irreversibly. It startled us awake from our slumber and from our innocence of life. The what-if's and how's and why's echo with every passing car.

For this we have to be thankful for: that God was with you, that your friends were there, that no one else was hurt, that you weren't killed instantly, that it was what it was and nothing more--that this place was once lit up with light, sirens, and chaos; but now the neighboring field sits calm, peaceful, and at rest.