Friday, January 11th

Did you know when you got dressed that morning that you were picking out the clothes you would die in?

2:45 p.m. is the time the accident was reported.
We got there 10 minutes after…
after you had crossed over the highway,
after you had crossed into eternity.

Sitting on the road, it was an interruption to our celebration.
We had somewhere to be, people who were waiting on us -
maybe you did too.

Siren after siren, all those flashing lights…traffic blockaded, the television crew that arrived, but the first sign of trouble was the truck parked on the shoulder, hazard lights flashing.

hazard

[haz-erd]

noun

1. an unavoidable danger or risk, even though often foreseeable:The job was full of hazards.

2. something causing unavoidable danger, peril, risk, or difficulty:
   the many hazards of the big city.

3. the absence or lack of predictability; chance; uncertainty:There is an element of hazard in the execution of the most painstaking plans.
   

Unavoidable risk, death’s confrontation.
It’s easy to pretend, easy to deny, easy to make excuses…until mortality is staring at you in mangled car parts, burn marks and ash, body covered by tarp.

15 minutes after our arrival (which was 10 minutes after 2:45), the fireman came to our window and said, “We’ll getcha movin’ in just a few minutes.” We were not prepared to move past it; we still haven’t moved past it.

He was meaning you - the cars started inching forward, an unwilling viewing at a funeral none of us chose to attend. We saw you, boots pointing to heaven, your right hand visible, the jacket you were wearing, my brother has one like that, I thought. When I talked to my mom about it later, she would refer to your “little boots,” framing the experience through a mother’s eyes.

You were a brother.
You were a son.
You were a dad.

I am still grappling with it - that delicate veil that was torn at 2:45 p.m. on January 11, 2019 in Abilene, Texas.