Our youngest son, David, was killed in an auto accident on May 18, 1996. He was 24 years old. After he died, someone wrote, "The most amazing source of comfort will be in remembering and re-telling with each other the stories of his life." I've done a little of that with a diary page. This page is just to recall who Dave was and why he was special.
David was a kid in a hurry. He entered this world precipitously (almost on the freeway) and he left it the same way. In the 24 years between, he was his own person and lived his life in his own unique way. Whether it was eating peanutbutter, jelly and tuna sandwiches for lunch for nearly a year, choosing the most bizarre hair style he could imagine to express his individuality, or philosophizing about Jack Kerouac, he was going to do it his way.
But everyone knew that he really looked just like his Dad did when he was a kid.
As a baby he had a serious demeanor most of the time, sitting there, watching the world with those enormous brown eyes. And then without warning he would give that infectious smile that he would later be famous for.
Life wasn't always kind to David. At 18 months, he fell out of a window and landed on his head on the concrete. Fortunately he did not suffer a concussion.
At age 4 he fell into a firepit while we were on a camping trip and he sustained 2nd degree burns on his face and hands. He couldn't go into the sun without a hat for a whole year.
That same year, he developed shingles and suffered intense pain. He bore it all with incredible strength. It would break my heart during the painful part of the shingles, when the lesions were breaking out. He say, "Hold my hand, Mom, it's starting." Then he would squeeze my hand very tightly, gradually letting go and saying, "It's over now. Thank you."
But in spite of his problems, he was an incredibly happy kid with an irrepressible spirit and a knack for making the most out of everything.
And then there were the "hair years..."
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