Good Morning Honey.
I've been thinking a lot about your story. The one we will not write together now that you've gone. But I still think your story needs to be told. So I will write it here in these pages. I know you will read them, so I ask that you inspire me with those things you want put in print. My prayer will be that your story will find it's way into the hearts of others and perhaps prevent just one child, teenager, adult from dropping into the abyss of drug addiction, or if they are there already, give them strength to crawl out. I do not know all of what your journey was, so without you, I will only be able to write about the road you and I traveled together. I write this with love and gratitude that you are my son and I was able to share your life.
I know for certain you did not start out with the intent of becomming an addict. In my mind I can see my young tow-headed boy in cut-off jeans and sneakers headed down to the Provo River to hand fish. The sun danced its beams across your back adding to your deep tan. How you loved the sun. Your already blonde hair would become more blonde by the sun's rays and your beautiful blue eyes would sparkle with mischieviousness. Back then, I didn't realize that the sun you loved so much might cause skin cancer no more than I knew that it wasn't safe to give aspirin to children. So I let you play in the sun without sunscreen and I gave you aspirin disolved in Pepsi or Coke when you had a fever.
You were always flanked with friends. Friends who called you "Whiting". There were always an abundance of them at our house, raiding the popscicles out of our freezer. You and they would be building "jumps" in the quiet street of our house; jumps made from cinder blocks and pieces of wood that you would ride your BMX bike up and over. I can see you riding that bike without hands and on one wheel. This time when I see you in my memory, you are in a pair sneakers, brown jeans, and no shirt. It's strange what tidbits of information my mind has stored and is brought back to life when the memories flood.
We lived in a subdivision of Provo, Utah; a relatively new subdivision that had not been completed. The area to the west of our house was undeveloped; filled with leaves and bushes and shrubs and trees. This area to your siblings, friends and yourself would be termed "the hut". Long hours of the summer days would find you at "the hut" bulding adventures.
It is now I am thankful God blessed me with a good memory. For I sit here on my bed and for an instant in time, my "summer son" is with me again.
-to be continued-