The whole Taylor clan, plus many friends, have been trying to deal with the death of our dear Zachary on March 13, and it’s super tough. Death, at any age, is tough, and it felt like Zach was just beginning to come into his own, to chart his way, to get on with life. His months spent in Mexico this winter grew him up from a boy to a man, and the rappelling accident that claimed his life still seems unreal.
Zach had been living with me this late winter and early spring, occupying one of my several empty bedrooms, and he was great company when he was around, which wasn’t much given the active work and play lives of today’s young people. Turning on the television on any given day, I would find the sound turned way down, as he kept it for the night vigil. I told him I couldn’t hear a thing once my hearing aids were out, but he kept the sound low anyway.
On the afternoon of the tragedy, Zach came hurriedly in and said he and friends were camping out that night, and could he have the potatoes and aluminum foil from the pantry as part of their dinner. “Of course,” I replied. Potatoes are cheap.
“Be safe,” I admonished him, as usual. “I love you.” “Love you too, Nana,” he replied. And he was gone.