We drove home crossing the Arkansas River in the dark. The lights from the highway stretched across the shallow current trying to follow the water south. I can't cross the Arkansas and not think of Taylor. Whether I am on the turnpike, the 91st street bridge or the 71st street bridge, the water always makes me ask, "Where are you, Taylor?"
I close my eyes and try to return to my boys, to be here, to be the mom with the object lesson and the advice the 17 year old wants to avoid.