Dear Rozann,

You don’t know me, but I’m sure you know who I am. I certainly know who you are. It’s September, 2012. Do you remember what happened on September 15th, 1978? I know, that was 34 years ago, but it’s a date I don’t think either one of us can ever forget. 

Do you remember? You were driving a school bus for the school district as a substitute driver. It was late afternoon, about 4:55PM, according to official papers. You were in a hurry because you were running late. The kids said that you got lost a couple of times. You stopped in front of a house to discharge some children, one of them my son, Bryan, age six. They said you were in such a hurry, that you tried to shut the doors before he could exit and caught his foot in them.

After that, the exact details of the event get fuzzy. You said that Bryan crossed in front of the bus, went across the street and into his yard and then came back and bent over in front of the bus to pick up a lunch box and you didn’t see him, even though he was wearing a bright yellow rain slicker. That was quite a distance to cover and get back in front of the opposite side of the bus. If you saw him do all of that, why didn’t you wait until you saw he was safely back in his yard before you started moving the bus again? Some of the other children on the bus stated that they felt the first bump and shouted, “Oh! Oh! Stop! Stop! You’ve hit something!” to which you replied, “It was only a dog” and you kept going. So you first knocked him down and ran over him with the front wheels, but then you kept going, and ran over him with the back wheels. But then, you continued down the street for several more yards, before finally coming to a stop at a stop sign at the end of the street. 

What happened? In those few seconds, did you panic? Was the thought that you had just run over a child so horrific, so unthinkable, that in that instant, your mind told you that if you just kept going, it didn’t happen? Did you think that you could just keep driving, like a hit and run accident and you could get away somehow? Did it finally dawn on you then, when you had to stop at the stop sign, what you had done? Did you look back in your rear-view mirrors and see him lying motionless in the street?

The details are unimportant at this point. What matters is that you killed my son that afternoon. It was Friday, the end of his first week of first grade. He never finished first grade. He never graduated high school. He never married nor had children of his own. He didn’t get a chance to go into the Navy, like two of his brothers and his dad. His life and all of our hopes and dreams for him, ended that Friday afternoon, 34 years ago. They ended because you were in a hurry. They ended because you were careless.

You know, even though we never met, I hated you for a long time. For a long time, I wanted so bad to buy an old school bus and destroy it blow by blow with a sledge hammer, just out of frustration and anger. I know you lost your job, but I lost my son. You took him from me and the rest of his family. I suppose you got another job at some point, but we haven’t been able to replace Bryan. He’s still dead, and you killed him.

But you know what, over the years I realized that as much as I grieved the loss of my son, I didn’t kill him. You did, and that’s something you will have to live with the rest of your life. For that, I honestly feel sorry for you. To know, to live with the fact every day, that you killed a child because you weren’t paying attention, because you were careless. Do you have children? Did you hug them and thank God for them every day after you killed Bryan? Are you still alive? I hope you are still alive. I hope someday you read this letter, or someone who knows you or is related to you, reads this.

Because I wanted you to know that I forgave you. It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t an act of Christian faith. It was simply the fact that the weight of hating you all those years was too much of a load for me to carry. I just couldn’t bear it any longer. It wasn’t making the grief any easier. I wasn’t bringing Bryan back. I don’t know what day it was. I don’t know what year it was. I just know that I decided to forgive you. I have no idea how the rest of Bryan’s family feels about you, and I am not speaking for them, I am speaking for myself. I thought about writing a letter to the paper where you and Bryan lived at the time, hoping that you would see my letter and know that I had forgiven you. But I just never did.

I’m sure you are/were a good person. I’m sure it wasn’t racial prejudice that caused you to take away my baby boy. Maybe it was racial prejudice that you never apologized, or if you did, I never heard about it. But this isn’t about race. This is about you and a terrible, awful mistake you made on September 15th, 1978. A mistake you had to, or will, live with the rest of your life. As far as I know, other than losing your job that day, you paid no other price. If you were even given a ticket for careless driving, I never heard about it. You were never charged with any crime that I know of. But I think you’ve paid for your mistake and I forgive you.

 Bryan’s daddy, age 65