R.B.A. is my son. We gave him three names. He was born on 25 June 1976, the Bicentennial year. He is a good man today. I could say much, but I can’t and won’t because I’m just sitting here enjoying the morning sounds of what may be crickets and the rumble of the refrigerator compressor. Dawn is breaking. The sky is an incredible shade of blue, like cobalt almost.
I will text RBA’s mom in a short to let her know I’m thinking of her too.
True Love never ends. So I’ve heard.