I'll never forget that sound of crunching and scraping metal. I didn't even have to look to see what happened. I new it was a car accident. I reached for the phone and called 911.

"There's been an accident in front of my house," I told the dispatcher.

"Thank you sir, we just received another call about the same incident," she replied.

It was August 5, 1988. I had just arrived home after the last day of my summer job as a roofer. My pants were stained with tar, my arms itched from tiny shards of insulation. I didn't even have time to wash my face and hands as ran through the front door and out to the accident scene.

A large crowd of people had already gathered around the crumpled car as I approached to offer my help.

As I neared the scene, I noticed my father trying to assist the victims of the crash.

I thought to myself, "that's weird, what's dad doing here? I thought they were up at the boat."

As I moved in closer, I noticed a young boy with curly blond hair lying in the back of the car. He was unconscious. Inching closer, I finally realized it was my brother Jason.

"What the hell's going on?" I said to my father.

He didn't respond. He was in shock.

At first, I didn't recognize the vehicle. Upon closer inspection, I realized it belonged to my father's friend George, who was dropping dad, Jason and my other brother Dan off after two weeks of holidays up north.

As they were turning into the driveway of our home, their car was slammed from behind by a drunk driver. The impact of the crash pushed luggage in the trunk into the back seat, where it struck my brother in the back of the head.

He was rushed to the local hospital, where we were told he had a 50-50 chance of surviving.

I remember thinking to myself, "how did a bump in the head become a matter of life or death?"

No one else in the car was injured, other than a few scrapes.

It didn't seem possible that Jason's life could be in such peril.

The next thing I knew, my brother was transported to the Hospital For Sick Children in Toronto.

For the next two days, we sat by his bedside as the doctors worked to save his life.

When the luggage was pushed through the backseat of the car, it hit Jason so hard in the back of the head that his brain started to swell.

He was hooked up to all kinds of tubes, and a device was screwed into his skull to monitor his the pressure inside his head.

We held his hand, sang him songs, prayed, cried, and hoped.

On Sunday, Aug. 7, we left the hospital for the first time. We went to my uncle's home in Toronto for a quick shower and a meal.

While we were away, the hospital called to inform us that things had taken a turn for the worse.

When we got to the hospital, I leapt out of the car and ran into the hospital. I couldn't wait for the elevator, so I ran up the stairs. As I approached Jason's room, the blind was drawn, the curtains closed and the room was dark. Jason was gone.

A week later we buried Jason in the family cemetery plot in Midland, Ontario. He was only 14.

This time of year is very difficult for me. Even more this year because 2008 marks the 20th anniversary of Jason's death.

If he were alive today, he would be 34 years old. I often wonder what he would be doing, what he would have accomplished, had his life not been snatched away by a drunk driver.

I think about those two days in August 1988, when our lives were turned upside down forever. It seems like only yesterday that I sang 'My favourite things' at his bedside, as he lay in a coma he would never come out of.

It seems like only yesterday that we rode together on my motorcycle and joked and laughed the entire way up the family boat. It seems like only yesterday that our mother scolded me for giving Jason punk rock albums. It seems like only yesterday that we were playing shinny hockey out in the driveway.

It's amazing how quickly 20 years can go by, and yet the pain of this loss still haunts me as much today as it did in August 1988.

It is said that 'time heals all wounds'.

Maybe I just pick at the scabs too much?

I have so many wonderful memories of the short time we had with my brother. It is those still fresh images in my mind that will help me get through another August.