What if I don’t want to go there? I know it has been a long time since I have posted a blog. I have many blogs started. I can’t finish them. I close my computer and walk away.

I want him here. I want him to say something to make me smile. I want him to say something to make me mad. I want him to say something that makes me frustrated. I want him to say something that makes me think. I want him to say something.

He can’t.

I want him to ask, “What’s for dinner?” I want him to ask, “Can I have some money for coffee at Coffee Rush?” I want him to walk into the hall carrying a pair of pants asking me to wash them. I want him to say he’s going to bed and ask if I will rub his back. I want him to open the front door and say a friend is here and 5 others walk in behind him. I want to sit on the couch with him and talk about something, anything, please anything.

We can’t.

I want to see him walk in with new vinyl that he scored at Zia Records. I want to hear some new music playing upstairs and ask who is that. I want to hear him playing his guitar. I want to hear his laugh again. I want to smell his smell as he picks me up off my feet. I want to touch his soft skin.

I can’t.

Riley was awesome. He really was. He was the light in a room. He went through life smiling and causing others to smile. He gave away hugs and they hugged back. He is gone never to speak, smile, hug again. That happened in an instant.

A fatal decision made to try a drug for the first time took him from me.  It only took one try to die. Stopped. Ended. Riley. I won’t ever hear his voice again. Touch him. Kiss him. Make dinner for him. Wash his clothes for him. Hand a $20 dollar bill to him for coffee again. See his shoes at the bottom of the stairs. Pick up a stack of coffee cups from his computer desk. I want to hear another, “I love you, Mom”.

We can’t share it. He can’t say it. I can’t hear it.

Whatever you think that drug might do for you, it’s not worth it.  Listen to Riley’s story.

I Love You, Riley.