I remembered his laugh, the way he leaned against the counter, and how certain I had been that we had years ahead of
Then, six weeks before our wedding, Adrian died in a car accident.
There was no warning. No final conversation. No chance to say anything important.
One day, I was deciding where to seat his difficult uncle.
The next, I was identifying Adrian’s belongings.
The crash was so bad that we buried him in a closed casket.
I remember standing beside his mother, Colleen, at the funeral, holding her hand while they lowered Adrian into the ground.
She squeezed my fingers so hard they hurt.
Neither of us said much.
There wasn’t anything useful to say.
People kept coming up to me afterward, quietly.
They hugged me, told me Adrian loved me, and promised that time would make things easier.
