Opinion: A void that can't be filled

Audrey Cohan lives in Syosset.My friend Amy Wolkis and I were out on our usual walk recently in Syosset when she stopped, kissed her hand and touched a park sign that carried her youngest child's name. It said Michael Lewis Wolkis Field - another reminder of a child who is gone but always there.

On Oct. 31, 2008, Michael was running a cross-country training circuit in Syosset with other high school boys, all starting to display their life's energy, when he was hit by a car in the road. He died six days later.

Now Amy is left with an unanswerable question: Why did God give us Michael for only 15 years?

Michael was born six weeks premature and overcame speech difficulties as he grew into a healthy and terrific young man. At school, he mastered advanced placement and honors-level schoolwork.

Michael had a caring and empathetic nature. When my son broke his leg in a skiing accident, Michael stayed inside to play with him. Parents know you cannot teach such a giving disposition; it comes from within. The community recognized his generous spirit in an outpouring of love. Michael's name was put on the field, on a scoreboard at another park where he played baseball, and in an honorary way on his family's street.

Amy and I weren't always friends. We had one of those relationships where we really liked each other, but at times our closeness was dictated by teenage daughters who chose friends as flavors of the month, and husbands whose egos over Little League baseball kept us apart. We reunited in the sadness of Michael's passing.

Over the years, I've been in awe of Amy's work as a PTA mom. A part-time job allowed her to be there for her children, always, for rides or snacks. She was at every baseball and basketball game. Her husband, Jerry, and daughter, Melissa, formed an ever-present cheering machine.

When we walk, I hesitate to talk about my children, concerned not to upset a grieving mom. Yet Amy, in her own way, shares advice and reminds me that her role as mother, although altered, continues with Melissa, 21.

And each time we walk, Amy asks, "When just one domino falls, how do we go on?"

I ask it myself. What happens to us as parents, as siblings, as couples, as grandparents, as walking partners?

After retracing our steps, Amy veers toward the park sign with her hand held high and a kiss lingering on her fingertips. I bow my head in memory of a beautiful boy.

It's two years since Michael's passing. Please drive carefully.