Brother's Keeper

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There are a precious few whom I’ve allowed into my other life, and I don’t regret sharing it with a single one of you. To my precious Olive, my sweet JENBALL, and the last remaining BIKsters, thanks for your support, sharing my excitement, and most of all, your acceptance of my somewhat unprofessional side. Cheers, ladies!

When I was ten years old, my life shattered in the blink of an eye. Escaping unscathed from a horrific car accident that claimed the lives of three people during rush hour traffic on I-35 north of Kansas City should almost be a cause for celebration. But when one of the unfortunate three victims is lying dead beside you in your mangled car, and she happens to be the most important person in your life, relief fast turns to devastation. I wanted to be dead, too. They call it survivor’s guilt. But the funny thing is I never felt guilty—just sad.

To add insult to injury, after my mother passed away, I ended up moving in with my father; he was long divorced from my mother, and I’d never had a relationship with him. Six months after her passing, he moved us to Allendale, a small community not far from Grand Rapids, Michigan. Allendale was a part farming, part urban sprawl community. It was a college town, and a private university at that. Not that it mattered to my ten-year-old self what academia was offered in the local over-priced university. At least it kept the population young, and the businesses flourished. Most of the residents of this safe and quiet community worked in nearby Grand Rapids.

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