It's been too sad around here lately to update the site. Several weeks ago, a terrific golden boy--19 years old--was killed in a car crash in Yellowstone. He was my son's best friend, a musician, surfer, lover of mountains, funny, free-spirited, glass-half-full type--or more apt--glass all the way full and let's drink up. Truly the leader of the pack and one of those kids you're glad your kid hangs around with.

For most of the children (I know--they're almost adults) this is the first grievous loss in their young lives. It's the defining moment that separates thoughtless immortality from the inevitable mortality. For us parents, the feeling of loss is personal and aching along with grief for our kids. We all liked him so much, appreciated him, and looked forward to what he'd say and do next. I stop in mid-task and feel the loss as sharply as I did when I first heard the news.

But as parents, there's another component. Think of all the times, as your children leave to drive back to school or go skiing or the city, or the times you've hugged them goodbye at an airport, that you say 'call me when you get there.' We know, absolutely know, they'll be fine. We ask them to call, partly out of habit and partly out of an uneasiness we think might be a little neurotic. After all, If parents had to consciously live in a nameless state of dread, we'd all be in padded rooms by now.

And yet, and yet--they're not safe, they may just not be fine. And that that phone call could come for any of us. As this golden boy's mother said to me, "We don't sit around asking 'why us?' The question is really 'why not us?' "

Jeff--you're not really gone. You're our spirit in the sky.