He's a fine boy...

When Wyatt was just about six weeks old we went to visit family.  On the way we stopped at my great uncle's house so he could see his great-great nephew.  My uncle, picked him up and held him in his arms, looked down at him and said, "He's a fine boy, a fine boy."

There have been many days lately that I sorely miss having my big strappin' boy around the house. It is so evident to me now how helpful Wyatt was to those he loved and cared about. He did so much for me, for his dad, for Elizabeth, for his friends, for his memaw. His absence so pronounced when I have to figure out how to move something or use some new electronic device or my mom needs a chore done...things he always did and never fussed about.  I think sometimes that maybe I asked him to do too much, but then I realize I didn't; I was simply trying in the only way I knew how to raise a fine boy in a way that he would grow to become a good man. Wyatt was becoming that good man I knew he would be; he was over the adolescent drama, gotten through the ever-present urge to be independent and had made his way to being a fine young man and then the world exploded. Damn. So unfair.  So cruel.

I wanted to see my fine boy become a good man.