I found my eleven year old son James crumbled on the floor in the dining room, half hidden between the breakfront and the wrought iron railing that separated it from the living room. When only minutes before he had heard that Randy had been killed, he went where he could curl up, partially in full view and partially hidden. He sat rolled into a ball with his back against the wall, knees rigid and bent reaching his chin where his head rested. His arms were wrapped tightly around his ankles. He looked as though he was trying to reach inside himself to only an hour before when his brother, his mentor, his very best friend hugged him and kissed him goodbye.

In my despair I tried to reach inside of him, to help him, to tell him how I love him and how together we can get through this. I wanted to get down to his level by sitting on my knees and reaching my outstretched arms around him.

His eyes were glazed over with salt water tears that ran down his cheeks his chin and his nose. But his dark eyes glared at my face and screamed “don’t touch me!”