11:11

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