Yesterday, the deadly tornado that ripped through Evansville came five miles close to my brother Ben and his family’s home. They are alright.
Today, I received a call from my mom. She passed on terrible news that one of our family friends died in a tragic car accident. Kerryanne Booras Neilson was on her way up to Orem to stay with her mom, who is dying of cancer. She brought her four year old son, Callen, with her. Just fifteen miles from her destination, outside of Santaquin, witnesses said that the vehicle started to the left side of the road, onto the shoulder. She overcorrected and the van went into the median and rolled across both southbound lanes. Her son was ejected; Kerryanne had to be extricated from the van. They were immediately killed.
Kerryanne leaves behind her husband Chris and two children, Kennedy (11), and Kade (7). This is a tragic loss to the Neilson and Steve & Sue Booras family. They have been great friends to me and my family and our hearts and prayers go out to all of them in this tragic time of passing.
Rest in peace, Kerryanne and Callen. May your spirits' flight find their place not too far off from those who love and miss you most.
A story: Years ago, when I was probably six or seven. My family drove to California to visit them, before they moved to Utah. While we were there, the parents went out for an evening and left us kids with a babysitter. That evening, we watched the Miss America or Miss USA pageant. Miss California won that night. I remember how Kerry, who would have been four or five at the time, pranced around that evening, pretending to be Miss California, expressing that she wanted to be her. Ever since that young age, Kerry was always Miss California to me.
From John Donne's Divine Poems, I introduce you to sonnet X:
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desparate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better than thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
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