Often throughout grief I struggle with the thought of J.T.’s significance. His importance is quite obvious to those of us who loved and knew him intimately, but it is a great gift to me when others who’s life he shared still carry with them a piece of my precious child. Yesterday at J.T.’s elementary school the fourth grade, his classmates, had their Field Day. It is one of the more exciting end of the year activities where the kids compete in athletic events against their peers, and the parents come and cheer them on. In our house, for my Son, this day was highly anticipated and it was there yesterday that I received the gift of significance. For in one short, bittersweet moment after the crowd was greeted and the National Anthem sung, the school dedicated the fourth grade Field Day in honor and memory of J.T. Crow. In that moment I felt him there, his chest puffed up with pride... or perhaps it was my pride I was feeling to know that so many still carry him with them as well.

If I had a single flower for every time I think about you, I could walk forever in my garden.
- Attributed to Claudia Ghandi


The dead cannot cry out for justice; it is the duty of the living to do so for them.
- Lois McMaster Bujold

As the shards of sand in the hourglass gently tumble down to the other side counting down the moments to Mother’s Day I find myself once again wrenched by that all too familiar pain. I know that I will always be “J.T.’s Mom” but that fact gives me no comfort in having to face the day without his physical presence. He was always my act two in a three-act play, instigator of breakfast in bed, which consisted of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and a Capri Sun, always putting the straw in for me. Bestowing me with the most precious gifts a mother can receive little homemade cards with paint-smeared handprints and a list of reasons why he loves me, always the simplest of things that I cherish and cling to when I need reminding. I’m not quite sure how to face my first Mother’s Day without him, his wet kisses and sparkling eyes, his loving words and warm hugs. For now the memories seem old and so small and the anticipation new and painful and raw.



The day goes by like a shadow o’er the heart, with sorrow, where once was delight.
-Stephen Foster

It seems to have been a while since I felt like posting and letting everyone in. Life's seas have become turbulent filling my little boat up with water and I was busy bailing but, as always, the situation once again becomes manageable and I can see and feel the sun. I have been receiving so many e-mails from those who are also wondering when their storm will stop. So much pain over precious life lost and so much angst as they batten down the hatches and try to weather the storms fury. I can feel each and every one of their struggles and would gladly lend them my bucket any day. So today I post for Richie. This young man lost his life on a Rhino as well. Here is some of what his mother wrote me:

“I lost my 14 yr old son, Richie, on February 23 in an accident involving a Rhino. I am so sorry about what happened to J.T. I wanted you to know that his website is up all the time when I'm home and that you are truly an inspiration. Like you, I'm going to do whatever I can to spread the word about the dangers of ATV's… People ask me all the time "how are you doing today?" They don't understand that every second, every minute is a struggle. I can be "okay" one minute and on my knees the next. Take care of you and yours. Hang in there. God Bless You and Thank You.”

As the stories of the victims of the Rhino pour in through my website, just as rapidly, they run through my mind. No longer nameless faceless stories that I have “heard” about. Every night as I lay in bed staring at my ceiling they come to me one by one obstructing my line of vision and introduced to me by my son. “ Hey Mom this is Dani. She’s Eighteen.” Or “Mom meet Richie. He’s new here.” I effortlessly match the names and faces to the story painfully told to me by a grieving family member. Knowing all to well the ache they feel being eternally separated from the one they love. These victims don’t speak to me but instead just stand there and consume me with the most spectacular features. Eyes always like clear panes of flawless glass that show the unimaginable beauty of the spirit or a smile that in it self speaks volumes. All collectively hoping that the strength and courage to make their community cease to grow lies within us. I no longer dread this parade of stolen souls because in time every story has become as personal to me as my own and every face as precious.