So that hopefully, through his memory, we can save other people who find themselves in situations where they need saving.
His life was cut far, far, too short. But I think maybe that's one good thing that can carry on his legacy, if not in its original physical form.
The days following the day that he died are so difficult, too.
Today, January 7, was the day we waited.
The day that the police dive team were still unable to search for him because it was too treacherous.
The last day we held a small glimmer of hope he'd been caught in a favourable rip that had pulled him under but then swept him downriver and washed him up onshore.
Tomorrow, January 8, was the day we knew.
The day a friend called my cellphone, and I answered and all I could hear was him crying.
The day that final glimmer had been well and truly extinguished.
They played Sweet Child of Mine at his funeral, as his casket was carried out of our highschool auditorium.
The casket had been painted bright green, and was covered with motorbike brand stickers. He loved his bikes.
School friend (and the one who rang me with the news) who was a pilot, went up in his small plane with a whole lot of flower petals and dropped them over the river where he drowned, at sunset.
I miss him so much, but especially over these days every year.