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Due to the fact that my oldest son, Kegan began his freshman year in college one week before my middle son Carrick was killed, we haven’t had a lot of time to work through all the grief together as a family. The first time Kegan returned home after the funeral, I sobbed openly the entire weekend. After that, a long time passed before he came home from school again. Adding to the trauma of an already painful situation, my youngest son Liam and Kegan were at a loss as to how to relate to each other. Carrick had always been the binder, the go-between, the white fluffy filling between their two hard Oreo cookie outsides. The two did not know what to do with each other. Both strung out in grief, they fought and griped. This only added to my angst over my once happy family torn to shards in a single moment. We went to counseling, we sent Kegan to counseling. No one seemed to be getting any better. Meanwhile, inexplicably, time was passing. Kegan began his sophomore year and then this year his junior year at college. Every time he’d return home, I would be besieged with memories. It had always, always been Kegan and Carrick. Born just 18 months apart, the two were in diapers together, then Osh Gosh overalls, then Kegan held his brother’s hand and took him to school. They were in band together, and always Kegan had the responsibility of taking care of his younger brother. While Kegan was responsible and serious, Carrick was always lighthearted and carefree. Where Kegan planned and prepared, Carrick laughed and worried about it later. Always, always, Carrick idolized his big brother. To Carrick, Kegan was a rock star; a king. So when Carrick was gone from our lives, it left a gaping hole in all of our hearts. I worried constantly about how all this sorrow and pain was going to scar Kegan. He didn’t talk to us openly about it, except to say to me once when I was agonizing over the “why?” and the “I should’ve’s” , “You had to let him drive Mom. He was so happy to drive. He was sixteen. It was not your fault.” Last week we went over to The University of Alabama to see Kegan. We have found that our visits to him are easier for us all, sometimes, than waiting for him to come home. Lunch seemed awkward. We discussed his classes, (“fine”) and updated him on our lives (“Liam swimming”, “biking” and “triathlons”) and then we fell into an uneasy spell. What had happened, I mused, to the little dark haired boy I used to hold in my lap? That little boy would talk and talk to me, holding my face in his little hands to make sure I was listening, until I thought my ears would bleed. One time in the car, my husband said, “I don’t think that boy is ever going to shut up!” The same little boy who would lead his blue-eyed brother around the yard, picking up bugs and racing as fast as they could on their bicycles. “BIKE SHOW!” They used to call it. Now that little boy was a full-grown man, and he had shut up. He seemed reluctant, however, to end the day. Usually he cannot get us out of his hair fast enough, but today he was dragging his feet at separating. We went from place to place, running menial errands, picking up supplies and books for him. Finally, in the parking lot of a bookstore, he rolled up his sleeve. “Look.” He announced. His dark skin had a tattoo. I knew what it was. “It’s a Carrick knot.” He said. I touched it, lightly. The ends of the knot appeared to go into his very flesh, as the knot had physically entered his arms. “I just had to get it.” He said. Tears sprung to my eyes as I realized this tattoo was his way of keeping his brother with him, always, in a very tangible way. “It’s beautiful.” I said, and was glad for the man he has become.
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