Carrie Cariello

Last night Joe and I went to a wake.

When I first read the news report, the one that said a 23-year old man had been killed in a car accident, my first thought was that twenty-three years old is too young to be a man. He’s a boy really, barely out of adolescence.

My second thought was: I know them. I know this family. I know this mother.

I don’t know her well. We see each other a few times a year at barbecues and cocktail hours and, once, for dinner at a sushi restaurant downtown. In August we danced together at a birthday party to hits from the 80’s like Jesse’s Girl and Livin’ on a Prayer.

I’ve never met her son.

I didn’t call her when I heard the news. I didn’t e-mail her, or text her, or go to her house. Yet I thought about her…

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