Posted in Lanscape of Loss, Markers


A teenager from my son’s highschool was killed in a car accident yesterday afternoon.

My son missed the bus home, and now we need to find him a ride.

(At least he’s alive.)

When a child dies, it doesn’t matter whether you know him or his mom, it hurts deep inside.

My son missed the dinner I made for just the three of us.

(At least he’s alive.)

On Facebook, fellow teenagers pour out their hearts on Daniel’s wall: “We’ll miss you buddy.” “I can’t believe we won’t see you again.” “You’re the man.” “Rest in peace.” “I wish we hung out more.” “I only talked to you once or twice.” “I was such a bitch.” “I can’t imagine life without you.”

I worry about my son smoking pot or drinking beer.

(At least he’s alive.)

Daniel’s mom posts her son’s picture with the words, “Beautiful boy.”

Lloyd never calls me back to tell me when he’s getting home.

(I need to know he’s alive.)

Daniel’s grandmother was in the car too, and she’s just made it through a night of surgery.

My youngest son, Aidan, left this morning for his class field trip to Cape Cod. He’s only eleven.

(I hope he’s alive.)

Facebook mirrors the dichotomies of our lives–one lost and another’s just begun. Babies born. Hearts broken. Lost puppies found. All day long.

On this particular day, I’ve watched the posts of relatives make their way to Costa Rica for my cousin’s wedding. The Houston airport. Philadelphia. New York. Each about to intersect in a celebration of joy which takes place at 11:11 on 11/11/11.

While at the same time, Daniel’s wall continues to fill with voices from near and far, converging to say… goodbye.

Kelly Salasin, November 2011



Lifelong educator, writer, retreat & journey leader, yoga & yogadance instructor.

3 thoughts on “11:11

  1. you guys have had a rough couple of months in VT…here’s hoping winter brings a “freeze” to the stream of sadness…Hoping all goes well with Aidan’s trip. I won’t say “don’t worry” because that’s ridiculous…I guess all you can do is count down the days until he’s home and be thankful as each one passes uneventfully!


  2. Kel,
    My son, Jim, is 22 now. And, although we are in a solid place with him now, I can relate to the parenthesis comments. I want to write a piece on our children and how they obtain drugs from their physicians that rob them of their own ability to rally and challenge depression, insomnia, anxiety and pain. Since Jim went to college, he has lost many friends in car/motorcycle accidents and each time what I feel is what you wrote. The contortion of pain that finds its way to my face is so deep. This is motherhood, just as much as the pride of him playing his saxophone or writing me a poem. Had I known it would consume me (only if I allow it to, as I can control it and enjoy my life) I may have chosen a different path. that is how painful the death of a child is.


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