by Cyndi S. Crawford
(Peachtree City, GA, USA)
On March 18, my cousin Todd was driving from Oklahoma City to Lake Texoma with his three children to meet up with his parents at their lake house for a week-long vacation.
He never made it. I don't know how far from his destination he was, but he and his youngest two children (his daughter Blake was three, and his son Asher was one) were killed instantly when a semi swerved into the lane that he was driving in.
His oldest son, Riley, survived the wreck, but was airlifted to a hospital in Oklahoma City in critical condition. He's going to survive, but he's devastated that his father AND his little brother and sister are gone.
Frankly, I don't blame him. My cousin, who was born when I was two and a half years old, is gone, and it happened in an instant. He was ten days from turning 30.
Todd leaves behind his parents Rebecca and Mike, his wife Kim, his oldest son Riley, his sister Michelle, six cousins, at least one grandmother, and I don't know how many other people who knew and loved him.
Blake and Asher leave behind a devastated mother and grandparents. I wish I'd gotten to meet them more than twice before I lost them. The potential they had in them to grow up to be great people like their parents is gone. That hurts so much.
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