My skin crawls, remembering that night. Five years ago.
The phone call at 3am.
The laying awake, staring at the ceiling, waiting.
Knowing he, right next to me was awake too, but being unable to find the words to join us in the dark.
At 7, he made phone calls to family that confirmed our fears, dressed quickly, and left.
He had to see for himself.
And he did see.
And identify the body of his cousin, and best friend.
The tragedy of a car accident had stolen his life without asking first.
Or asking us.
Or asking his fiance, or his grandmother, or the mate he was supposed to be the best man for, at the wedding in the next couple of weeks.
No one was asked.
This year, he would have been 30.
He would still have been the life of every party, with the smile that lit up every room.
The infectious laugh, the cheeky grin.
He gave good hugs, and I knew he was proud of us.
Today, the hubby will stop there, at that place of tragedy.
He'll have a drink for him, and leave one there.
Many will flock there today, the cross on the side of the road.
I'll leave some flowers and think about the time I told him he looked like Jack Johnson.
He liked that.
And I'll think about the things that have changed in the last five years, and I'll be reminded to live my life with a little more purpose.
Because no one is asked. No one knows.