Here's a little background on my son. His name was Logan; he was the second of three brothers. Bright and quirky, he was an observer, a listener, a sage. His life's longest lasting dream was to attend college. On August 21st, 2011, we loaded his belongings into the old Ford Taurus he drove. He didn't want to take the car to school. He felt, instead, that I should simply drop him off. He loved to walk, the town was small, and he couldn't see the sense in paying for parking a car he really didn't need. He was practical, like that. I talked him into taking it anyway. I told him that, if he decided it was completely useless, he could always leave it home on his next visit. I was pushy, like that. Twelve days later, on September 3rd, 2011, two days shy of his 19th birthday, Logan drove that car through a stop sign at a rural intersection, was broadsided by a truck, and died at the scene of the accident. Due to the extent of his injuries, we never got to see him before he was buried. I dropped him off at college to begin living his dream, and I never saw his face again. He was here, then he was gone. It still doesn't seem real.

I was at my uncle's auction, bidding on a dresser, when I felt a tug on my arm. I turned around and there stood my husband. We are dairy farmers by trade, and he was wearing his dirty barn clothes; I could smell the farm on him, and it was out of place there. He had a look that made me think he was furious at me. He pulled me toward the door and I stumbled, trying to get my footing. My first thought was that he was upset that I had bought two dressers. He's not the kind of fellow who gets mad easy. Definitely not about two auction sale dressers. I said, "What are you doing?" He walked faster, forcing me to follow him. "What in the hell is the matter with you?!"

He dragged me out the door and turned to me and said, "Logan was in an accident. He didn't make it." I was still thinking about the dressers I had bought, but didn't really need. I stared at him. What I had thought was fury on his face was actually something I'd never seen before. I simply didn't recognize it.

"What are you talking about? Why are you here?"

"Logan was in an accident, Mom. He died. The State trooper came and told me." In an instant my vision narrowed, the outer edges of it filling with black sand. What lay before me was not the concrete on which I stood, but rather a huge black hole. I felt my feet tilting forward, pulled by a force heavier than me. The sand kept pouring around the frame of my sight, working ever closer to the middle, suffocating me with its weight. My husband grabbed me and hugged me. In that moment, I felt like I could do one of two things: I could free fall forward, into that great abyss, or I could start clawing for a hold that would at least keep me rooted until I figured out where in the hell my world had gone. Everything inside me told me to fall...except one small point of light that I could still see through that sand. I sat down on the concrete, and I don't remember much, other than, when I stood up again, there was a large crowd of people around us. I thought, dear God, my house is such a mess and these people will probably follow us home!