During the month of April, I am taking on the Blogging from A to Z challenge, writing twenty-six alphabet themed grief notes.
On August 17, 2017 my twenty year old son was killed in a car wreck. I am trying to be OK . . . we are all trying to be OK ... in a world where nothing is OK. I am reaching for what I know heals me ... creativity ... art ... writing. Stringing together words, thoughts, and questions.
I want you to know that I'd rather pick another words ... something easier ... something nicer.
But I can't.
I vowed to be honest about what this grief journey has been like, is like. I made myself a promise that I would write the hard things, the beautiful things. I happen to believe those are both one and the same. Hard and beautiful.
You can't make death pretty. You can't make pain pretty. You can't make grief pretty.
The beauty lies in living through it, showing up honestly.
So here are my words today ... for the letter K.
My son was killed.
He did not just die.
He was killed by someone driving something for some place.
Eight months later and no one has been held accountable.
I am angry and I don't know who to be angry at.
The individual ... individuals ... driving? was it one or more?
Vehicle malfunction or negligence?
The company? who knows what company is responsible. The rental company ... the company who rented?
We still don't know.
The lack of answers, lack of closure, is maddening.
My reasonable mind says that none of it will matter. That it won't bring Noah back.
My heart screams for vengeance. I want someone to pay for this.
I never thought I'd be that person but I have become that person.
Because this is painful and I am angry.
I wonder if they are still driving? Does it haunt them?
The sight of my son's body being pulled from the car ...
I don't even know if he was in the car. They tell me he had pulled over to get something out of the back. Was he standing beside his car? Or was he still in the driver's seat? Buckled up or not? What happened? I have no idea. I didn't see his body after he died ... did they tell us it was best if we didn't? I don't know.
he left my house that morning and returned the next week in an urn.
How is that possible?
This pain compounds when I think of every mother who doesn't get answers, who doesn't get justice. The list is endless.
I started trying to list them but I can't. I am crying too hard. I am broken.