Yes, I had a life of my own — a life designed around the goal of raising a child who was able to make it on his own in this world. Yes, it is unwise and unhealthy to let the existence of one person determine who you are and what you do. But I was a mother. As far as I was concerned, no matter what else I did in my life, no matter whether I made any difference in this world, the one thing that truly mattered was my son and his future and his happiness. I always felt as long as I lived to see him grow into a happy functioning adult, then I would have made a difference and anything else I might do simply did not have much significance.

   Where before my future was his future — his graduation, watching him grow into a responsible adult, spoiling my grandchildren rotten, watching the movies he hoped to make, reading the books he hoped to write — that has all been brutally and needlessly taken away. So the question in my mind has become — what next?

   The answer has proven elusive. I struggle some days just to find a reason to get out of bed. I spent the first two years after his death on a mission to find out what happened to him. My attempts to find answers and to find those responsible have been my raison d'etre. That is about over now. I have had to break that final commitment I made to my son as I said good-bye, because no one in authority seems to care as much as I do.

   I have survived the last two years because of my rage. When you lose a child to violent and traumatic death, it causes the rage to mask the grief. But at some point, when you finally think you have the rage under control, the grief seems to charge at you with such force and power it feels as though you have lost your child all over again. It is like awakening from a horrible nightmare only to find it is in fact a horrible reality.

   There are of course the endless questions — how much did he suffer, did he know what was happening to him, was he afraid, did he know I wasn't there, does he see how much pain I am in now. There are the endless nightmares — seeing him as I last saw him instead of how he was: full of life, a quick wit, a gentle soul, a tender heart, a young man trying to learn how to survive in a hostile world.

   My rage has not decreased, but the grief and the longing to hold him and to hear his voice are beginning to take over. My frustration eats at me. My attempts to define a future no longer being called "Mom" are still unsuccessful. Reasons for my existence continue to elude me. Simple everyday things we usually give no thought to at all become monumental obstacles. What do I do with the photo albums I had so carefully put together for him and his children? Who takes care of his things when I am gone? Who will remember him and talk about him and remind people of who he was?

   One thing that is a constant in this life after his death is the unpredictability of my emotions. When I think I am finally coping, I see the back of someone's head that reminds me of him and I am completely paralyzed. I pull over to the side of the road sobbing, reliving every terrifying moment of the three weeks he was missing and the two years since. It is as though the time/space continuum froze in May of 1996. Memories and reality become confused; I have no sense of time. Past/present/future become hopelessly entangled. Before my son was killed, I would have predicted that people who lose someone would reach out to others in an effort to forge relationships, rekindle feelings, fill the emptiness and loneliness. The opposite is in fact true. At least for me, the death of my child and the accompanying pain cause fear and distance in relationships: I am afraid to lose anyone else I care about so I am afraid to care.

   In my heart, I feel that I must somehow continue his legacy, fulfill his dreams. But I don't know how. I spend my days doing whatever I can to force our governments to warn people of the dangers inherent in traveling to Mexico and to try to convince them that our children's lives do count. Unsuccessfully so far. I spend my evenings doing whatever I can to persuade people not to travel to Mexico, somewhat more successfully. I spend my nights sleepless, waiting for the nightmares to go away.

   When I was going through my photo albums recently, I noticed there are no pictures of me alone, without my son by my side, since I adopted him in September of 1975. We were mother and son, best friends, soul mates. Then I came across a picture of me with his friends, getting ready to say goodbye. It is not a comfortable image — his friends and I distributing his remains, trying to find the words to fill in the horrible void his absence will forever leave.

   I no longer know who I am. I may never have the answers. There may not be any answers. All I know for certain is that I am not the same person I was and will never be again. So the question remains: while he was alive, I was defined by his existence. Will I now forever be defined by his death?