This is my nephew Reese

This is my nephew Reese.

He turns nineteen this month. He was a high school athlete who just fell in love with dirt bikes and doing tricks.

He thought helmets weren’t a big deal, even though I kept nagging him.

“I know, I’ll wear one,” he’d say with that little grin, just to keep me quiet.

Right now I can’t hear that grin or his voice at all.

He’s in a coma, breathing through a ventilator because of a bad brain injury and a lot of other broken places.

Last night I watched three kind nurses gently wash him and take care of him.

It hit me how embarrassed he’d be if he knew.

But he doesn’t know anything right now.

He doesn’t know I sat by his bed reading him the paper I was grading.

He doesn’t know his bike is wrecked, his head is shaved, or there’s a metal rod holding his leg together.

He doesn’t know how many people are praying for him to open his eyes and be okay again.

He doesn’t know I’m scared to start crying because I’m not sure I could stop.

He doesn’t know that when he wakes up I’ll be right there to hug him, kiss his forehead, and remind him he promised me he’d wear a helmet.

So if you ride, if you have people who love you, if you want to stick around for them and for yourself, please—just wear a helmet.

It might not look cool, it might not feel as free, but I promise you’d rather wear it than end up on a ventilator with tubes everywhere and a bolt drilled into your head.

Even the safest rider can’t stop someone else from making a mistake on the road.

Please wear a helmet.

For Reese. For everyone who loves you. Please.