Loss of a SonA Poem by papaedsmall bio of big eventSteve was 18 when he knocked on our door
almost 30 years ago 5-10 and barely 100 pounds he could barely speak and had the shakes his pale blond face was covered with sores
we took him in, fed him and his story was slowly revealed he was my second wife’s oldest he’d always been quiet held his emotions with reserve and found communication difficult
he dropped out of high school in Kansas City and ran away he dealt drugs got hooked on heroin didn’t pay off his supplier and told us that he’d been shot at on the street he hitchhiked out of town afraid to go back to where he was staying
he’d traveled for two days 250 miles without food or water .... or drugs we rented an uninsulated old farmhouse in the woods and were in a ‘back-to-the-earth’ phase wood heat, cistern water, livestock,
I was beginning self-employment escaping the rat race learning to work hard glad to be away from the office
it took him a week to act like a human covered with needle tracks manic depressive emotions hard for my new wife and two grade school kids to tolerate, to understand
I devoted the summer to Steve by his side day and night I watched him become a whole person again I got a pressure pot spray paint set-up with compressor advertised as a painter taught Steve to handle and clean the equipment we sprayed metal roofs, barns, fertilizer tanks and farm equipment just the two of us
by the end of summer money was running low I’d begun to really bond with Steve I let him smoke we shared quiet moments conversations went into depth I mentored and occasionally even heard Steve’s laughter
I put out my resume and was offered an engineering design job in Knoxville, Tennessee I packed my cherry 53 Ford pickup and Steve and I drove 800 miles to a new adventure my darling, tolerant wife and kids stayed behind The University of Tennessee was in session, but we found a house with two rooms for rent.
I pressed him to find a job... not easy in a college town we spent weekends camping along the Appalachian trail shooting pool. He was longing to feel worthy he was not content to sit around and let me support him I was gone for 10 or more hours every day he couldn’t linger around the house so went for long walks and gave blood for pot money by Christmas he needed a change I gave him pocket money and a ticket for a bus ride to Kansas City
I missed him and prayed every day was not surprised that he didn’t write In April, his mother, who never called me called crying to tell me that he’d been killed I was devastated.
I drove my truck to Kansas City for the funeral I was greeted by many kids his age who all said they knew me he constantly talked about me he’d not been killed as his mother wanted to believe.
He’d hung himself with a rope from a light fixture in his girlfriend’s house. another tragedy and loss swept over me I still try not to blame myself his mother is still in denial
Death begins with life’s first breath and life begins at touch of death © 2008 papaed
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5 Reviews Added on February 7, 2008 Last Updated on November 29, 2008 AuthorpapaedKansas City, MOAboutno erudite pontifications, no complex extrapolations no intentional hurtful lies, just simple age-wise aliteration and prose, of a man who's in the throes of living day to day from his head down to.. more..Writing
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