Where the 20 Should Be

There are a million things I would rather be building for my son than a memorial to place on the side of the road.

I would rather be helping him fix his car.
I would rather be building a gaming table for his next campaign.
I would rather be standing in the garage with him arguing about whether something needs sanding one more time.

Instead, I’m building a shield.

Alex crashed his car into some trees just around the corner from our house. Since the accident, I’ve carried this internal need to do something for him. To honor him. To mark the place. I’ve seen so many roadside memorials over the years — crosses, flowers, photos — and I understand now why people build them. Love doesn’t stop when someone dies. It has nowhere to go.

A cross didn’t feel right for Alex.

It felt generic. And Alex was never generic.

He loved Dungeons & Dragons and Pathfinder. Dice — especially the D20 — were central to his life. I can still hear him talking the entire ride home from weekend games, replaying every encounter, every roll, every near disaster that turned into a victory.

One of his most iconic characters carried a shield. He prided himself on being untouchable. The defender. The one who stepped forward when things got dangerous.

So I’m building a shield.

At the center is a raised D20. And where the number 20 would normally be — the critical success, the best possible roll — are his initials.

Because for me, that’s what belongs there.

In DnD, a natural 20 means something extraordinary happened. It’s the moment the table erupts. The impossible becomes possible.

But I don’t need the number carved into the wood to tell that story.

His initials say it better.

He was my critical success.

Working on this has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Every cut feels permanent. Every sanding pass feels like admitting this is real. There are a thousand other things I would rather be making for him than something that stands at the site of the worst day of our lives.

But I keep building.

Because I couldn’t protect him from that moment.

And that reality is something I carry every single day.

What I can protect is his story.

This shield isn’t about how he died.
It’s about how he lived.

It’s about the kid who couldn’t stop talking about his campaign on the ride home.
It’s about the pride he felt being the one who carried the shield.
It’s about imagination, loyalty, and the joy of rolling dice around a table with friends.

If I have to build something for the side of the road, then it’s going to scream Alex.

And where the 20 should be… his initials will stand instead.

Because in my life, he will always be the critical success.