A fresh puddle of dirty, melted snow lay pooling by the door under my son's boots. Hanging up my coat, I walked into the kitchen. The house was silent. My eye caught an open notebook sitting on the table. Glancing at it, I realized it was my son's log book where he kept religious record of his workouts and runs. Scanning the page, I sighed. He'd been going out at least twice a day for 5-10 miles each time. Shaking my head, I leaned against the counter, and closed my eyes wearily. There was still not a sound. Knowing he was home, I made my way to the living room.

He was lying asleep, collapsed in our old reclining chair, dark wavy hair still damp and matted from his run. I sat down against wall and watched my son sleep. He looked as if pure exhaustion had finally caught up with him. But even sleep didn't wipe the look of pain from his face or the slight frown from his forehead. Leaning my head on my knee, I could feel my breath catch in my throat and tears form in my eyes as my heart broke for my boy.

It had been six months since the accident. Even though they had had "big plans" for their two-year-being-together anniversary that evening (I had chuckled to myself at my son's youthful exuberance as he had told me about it), she had insisted on walking him home. I had pulled up from work just as they were kissing goodbye at the front door. As I got out of my truck, I had struggled to keep from laughing at their consternation and embarrassment. I gently cuffed my son on the back of his head with grin, "Hey, just keep it PG out in public ok?!" He had nodded, beet red. "Nice to see you again Amanda!" I had told the girl who still had her fingers intertwined with my son's. She had turned even redder than he had, "You too Mr. Taylor." I had laughed and headed into the house.

Apparently she had turned to wave my son goodbye as she crossed the street and never noticed the pick-up that ran the stop sign at the corner. I'll never forget my son's screams as he watched her get hit. She died in my arms in the middle of the street.

Since then, he had hardly eaten or slept. He threw himself relentlessly into his studies and pushed himself mercilessly with his workouts and runs in an effort to not feel. Or more precisely, to make his body feel as punished as his mind and heart felt. It's an odd sort of relief doing that. It makes you feel better and worse all at the same time. It provides a physical release and expression for pain, but in the end only prolongs its presence. Why couldn't he be more like Stella and less like me?

I closed my eyes, old memories surging back.

A quiet voice broke through my thoughts.

"Dad?"

I looked up.

He had awoken, but hadn't moved, as if he had finally completely spent himself.

"Is Mom working tonight?"

I cleared my throat and wiped a hand over my face, "Yeah, she is."

He fell silent for a few minutes just lying there. I didn't move either.

"It hurts dad," he said in a small voice.

I couldn't speak.

"It hurts all over, and I'm so tired." His voice shook.

I looked at him lying limply in the chair.

My eyes filled with tears, and I motioned for him to come sit beside me. He came and collapsed next to me. He had finally stripped away all his defenses and he had nothing left.

"I know, Ian. I know."

His shoulders shook as he started to cry. He hadn't shed a tear since the funeral. I pulled his head to my chest as he sobbed, and instead of my almost grown son, I was once again holding my six year old little boy crying his heart out.

I held him close, desperately wishing I could take his pain away. Slowly he quieted. I bent my head down and rested it on his. We sat there, not moving.

"How'd you do it dad?" he asked at last.

"Do what?"

"How'd you do it when, you know," he paused, and I could feel him tense ever so slightly. I knew what he was going to ask. "When Claire died?" I knew he'd been wanting to ask me, but unsure whether he should or how to.

"I almost didn't," I confessed. "It took time. Time, and your mother." I stroked his hair with my hand. "It gets better. It won't happen overnight. You'll never forget her. But the sharp, painful edge that cuts you to pieces inside will fade, and you will start to heal." I paused, "It took your mom to show me that. To show me that life goes on and it's alright to let it."

We sat there a while longer, both deep in thought.

Then he took a deep breath and sat up. Wiping his face with his t-shirt, he gave me a weak smile and was once again my 18 year-old, Annapolis bound son.

"Sorry about your shirt," he said.

I grinned and lightly punched his shoulder, "Yeah, it was brand new too!"

He gave me a small laugh, "Sure dad, whatever! I think I'm going to go take a shower," he said.

I nodded, "I'll get dinner going. You hungry?"

"More than!"