* * *

The news travelled quickly Two nights later, Rich, Neil and I stood at Ike's front door to pay our respects to his family and to share their grief. I remember speechlessly shaking hands with Ike's father. I remember thinking. What do you say to a man who just lost his only son? I doubt he remembers seeing me at all that night. He was far away, or deep within himself.

Together, we sat in Ike's room, trading Ike stories and sifting through 19 years of clutter--Ike never threw anything away. Now, the clutter and memories are all that remain of an old friend. Ike's funeral was the following day. Hundreds of friends and relatives crowded the temple where we had once cut classes. Dozens of parents sat in the crowd, traumatized, pained, and guiltily thinking to themselves. Thank God that wasn't my kid.

Someone played a recording of Prince's "Purple Rain" into the microphone. The song was Ike's favorite, and it held special meaning for him.

They buried Ike next to his grandfather in a family plot.

Meanwhile, Ike's friends returned from the brink in a Texas hospital. They have since recovered from their injuries, but the deepest wounds will never heal.

* * *

Last Sunday family and friends visited Ike's grave to honor him with a traditional memorial service. The ceremony was supposed to mark the end of the mourning period, but for some, the grief will never diminish. And for others, grief lies waiting somewhere down the road, around the next bend, just past that last six-pack.

My friend Ike always was a lucky kid, but luck wasn't enough that might out Highway 15.