t was several weeks later that I remembered the ambulance. It's funny, you consider yourself to be an aware person until a situation presents itself that makes it embarrassingly obvious that you are not. The ambulance was coming out of the subdivision, the direction we were turning, but the lights weren't flashing, the sirens weren't blaring and the driver was obviously not in any hurry. I should have put it together, should have realized it then. But it wasn't until we got to the house and I saw the yellow police crime scene tape that I realized that something was wrong ... oh so terribly wrong!! The possibility of our sixteen year old son being dead inside his friend's house was not even a remote consideration.

My wife Kathy said she knew he had died the moment she answered our phone at home. She listened to Ryan's frantic girl friend tell her he had been shot and Kathy ran out of the house deep within the surrounding woods, screaming all the way. She eventually laid down in the woods and watched the clouds passing by on an otherwise beautifully moonlit fall evening. She later remarked at how odd it was, how incongruous, that as she lay there she felt a tremendous sense of calm. She said she felt "surrounded" by an unfamiliar peacefulness that washed over her.

Running toward the house I ducked under the crime scene tape and was immediately confronted by three sheriffs deputies who surrounded me, demanding to know who I was. "I'm Ryan's father-how is he?" One of them, the one immediately in front of me, looked me directly in the eyes and finally said "I'm sorry sir, he's gone."

"What do you mean he's gone? We got the call he'd been shot, isn't he here?" Their continued silence, the practiced pause ... then it all came crashing in on me. I instantly felt trapped, surrounded, claustrophobic. I couldn't breathe ... no place to run, no place to hide, no way out.

Ryan's years were very, very full, although short. His accomplishments on stage as a young actor were most impressive. A gifted athlete, he gave up sports entirely as his passion for acting, music, writing and poetry matured. In retrospect, I think his level of self confidence frightened me. I believe that a part of me recognized his fearlessness and was intimidated by it, although I certainly respected it.

He enjoyed playing Injun Joe in the production of Tom Sawyer. He loved jumping off the stage and running through the audience of younger children, delighted by the shrieks and screams as they reacted to his demonic behavior. Ryan was a gifted actor. He had no fear, took complete command of an entire audience, and was credited with inspiring many younger children who became interested in acting.

Now, an innocent gathering of teenagers, alcohol, a handgun they found (that was supposedly unloaded) changed our lives forever. The kids removed the clip from the gun "just to be safe." They all played with the gun, firing it into the air, the fireplace, even pointing it at each other. But when Ryan played with the gun like a stage prop, the safety got turned off, allowing the live bullet in the chamber of the Russian-made handgun to end his life. The coroner told me later he doubted Ryan even heard the gun go off. I heard the kids at the house running around the yard screaming and crying as the coroner's dark windowed station wagon pulled up. I walked numbly to our car to tell Kathy that our beautiful sixteen year old boy would never again be coming home.

I was amazed to find that grief could wear so many faces, each of which had the capacity to trigger a torrent of thought and emotion. It was disguised in his favorite food we no longer bought, his clothes that no longer needed washing, or his guitar that was no longer played. It could be a reflection off the lake that once carried our canoe or the words to a song I knew he loved. It lurked in my dreams and was carried by the wind that sounded like him crying. It could jump from everything and from everywhere.

In the beginning it was simply too overwhelming. I would merely collapse and cry. I felt like a rodent in an emotional maze. There was no escaping. I could not climb out, there was no exit and I always ended up back at the beginning. There was absolutely nothing I could do to undo what had happened.

Everyone seems to have a different relationship with grief. It's as though we are all standing on the beach at the ocean. Some remain dry, having had no exposure to death whatsoever. Some have had contact through an ancillary loss and they wade delicately, merely wetting their toes. Our family was treading the water frantically. At times the reminders of Ryan, the triggers would come like gentle waves on the beach. I could see them coming, get ready and merely step over them or allow them to pass through me. Other reminders would come from behind with no warning and smash me on the rocks.

Time passed. It was the first anniversary of our son's death. The cemetery where Ryan is buried is about two miles from our house. As I walked there listening to the songs on my Walkman we had played at Ryan's school memorial, the Federal Express truck came over the crest of the hill. I wasn't expecting anything but I had this unmistakable gut level intuition that I needed to stop the truck. When I waved the driver down and asked if she had something for the Robinsons, she looked surprised as I signed for the package. But whatever was in the package could wait. I wasn't going to dilute my experience of walking with the memorial service music.

As I walked through the cemetery, I could see what looked like a white ribbon on the ground trailing away from the far side of Ryan's headstone. Odd, I thought.

The kids had left an assortment of items over the last year, everything from fishing lures, CD's, notes, cigarette lighters, pinwheels, flowers, key chains and poems-but why a trailing white ribbon? When the headstone was in full view I realized the white ribbon was the strap to an electric guitar that must have been left there quite recently. It broke what little reserve I had left. I fell to my knees and sobbed. I felt like clawing at the earth to get my son out from where he lay.

Later, after talking to Ryan, I opened the package. Inside were two gift wrapped packages and pieces of cardboard protecting a hand written message from a dear friend in St. Louis. At the top of the message were the words "In Memory of Ryan Jon Robinson". My friend went on to tell the story of how he had purchased an assortment of CD's a year earlier on the weekend Ryan had died. He had planned on spending the weekend helping his daughter with a science project and listening to his new music when he received the news of our loss. Only later did he discover that all the artists he had selected had included songs dealing with the loss of a loved one on their respective CD's. Inside the first gift wrapped package was a cherry wood box. "In Memory of Ryan Jon Robinson", said the brass plate inside the lid. The box contained an audio cassette with a mix of the songs these artists had dedicated to their respective loved ones. The other package was a copy of the tape, which I played immediately.

I found that the drive to work in the morning was the best time for me to listen to the tape. I welcomed the solitude, the privacy from the insulated chamber of my car. One by one I was working my way through all of these songs. Each one held a special meaning. Each one seemed to

unleash stored emotions that I was unaware I had tucked away, unaware I had suppressed. I listened to the lyrics of the Archie Roach song, "I can't talk to my baby on the telephone. I'm starting to understand the meaning of love. " They made me realize that it is simply impossible to understand

how much you love a child, or anyone else for that matter, until they are gone. You just have absolutely no concept, no idea, of how much you love them. So many people had said "I can't imagine what you are going through." I would agree with them. We had crossed an invisible line into a realm of experience that, fortunately, the human mind could not imagine. How lucky these people were that they could not imagine what we were going through.

The songs on this tape were certainly generating a lot of tears. They brought up a tremendous amount of feeling-of sadness and memories. Our grief counselor cautioned us "to keep the grief moving, don't deny it or suppress it. " At some point I turned the comer. I could listen to these songs and experience the memories of Ryan that were activated without inconsolable sobbing, without the torrent of tears. I could listen to these songs, think of him and smile. I could listen to these songs and experience the memories of Ryan, missing him, of course, but with love, with enormous pride and a true appreciation for what we used to have.

Our grief counselor informed us "You have to get to a point of acceptance with your loss. " I realized these songs had been providing what I call "productive triggers". They activated memories, feelings and a tremendous amount of sadness. But ultimately, I had to acknowledge, it was productive. The quote that I had heard from the Gnostic Gospels now made more sense than ever, "If you do not bring forward what is within you, what is within you will destroy you. But, if you bring forward what is within you, what is within you will heal and save you."

Suddenly it dawned on me. These songs should be available.for anyone dealing with the loss of a loved one. These songs could provide the same source of "productive triggers" for others as they had for me. They could really help those who wanted to deal with their grief in a proactive manner. The connection with The Compassionate Friends was a natural. I would turn this tape of songs into a CD that could be available to everyone. The money we had been accumulating for Ryan's college days would underwrite the cost of producing this CD and all proceeds would go to benefit The Compassionate Friends.

Instantly the words from the Michael Smith song came to mind, " When you're put here, it's for a reason. He won't hand you a piece of paper with a map on it, no sir. " I was on a mission!

One of Ryan's poems we found after his death inspired the name for the CD:

Follow the Wind

Follow the wind to the other sides that call to you.
Can you capture the life that has yet to be lived?
That stained soul can be cleaned with time and faith

The CD would be entitled "Follow the Wind, Songs For Stained Souls." How fitting.

I feel I have reached a level of acceptance with Ryan's death that I never thought would be possible. I remember in the very beginning I wondered if there would ever be a period of five consecutive minutes when I would not be devastated by the feelings, the sadness and the memories. I can recall the feelings of guilt that came up immediately after I laughed the first time. "How could I be laughing? How could I find anything amusing, ever again?" The idea for this CD, the way it all started that day with the guitar at Ryan's grave, his poem for the title, my relationship with The Compassionate Friends, it all seemed to come together rather magically. I sometimes felt like I was just the conduit through which it was all happening.