Bryson

When I drove my son to school this morning, it was chilly, gray, and autumnal, perfect weather for Simon & Garfunkel's "America." Alex is always more open-minded and tolerant of my music in the morning, when he's still sleepy, so I figured I could get away with one more day of S&G before he tells me he can't take it anymore. Personally, I think he secretly likes a lot of the music I play, because more often than not, I will later hear him humming a melody that he heard on our morning drives to school.

As we drove the short distance to school, through the winding roads, I reached back to hold his hand for a sec, as I often do, and caught a glimpse of him through the rearview mirror, snuggly in his fleece jacket, looking quietly out the window at the peaking fall colors. "I love you, Baby," I said. "I love you too, Mom-zer," he replied.

I thanked God for him, and said a quiet little prayer for a boy named Bryson McCabe and his parents. I dropped Alex off, watched him walk with his backpack up the school steps, and waited for him to turn back for one more wave, as he does without fail every morning, and thanked God for that wave, too.

As I drove away, with "The Only Living Boy in New York" playing softly, I watched the parade of teens--some giggling, some cracking gum, some with hair still wet from showers, some with acne and braces--heading down Sunnyside Avenue to the adjacent high school. I cracked the window and heard the giggles and teenage chatter and silly banter. And I thought that Bryson would probably be doing this, too, right about now.

But instead, his heartbroken parents were preparing to bury him. I feel so sad and frustrated and mad. How can this be? How can this child's life be over? I never knew him, but I miss him.