Walton Jones.

On February 18, 2016, my baby boy would have been 29 years old. There are many statements I could

make about his short life, but to me the most remarkable is this: In his almost 28 years of life on this

earth, I never recall him saying one unkind word about anyone. That makes him unique in our family.

We were so fortunate to call him son, brother, and friend.

He was precocious and full of wonderment.

Perpetually 27. What will it be like to be 82 and have a 27 year old son/brother/friend? Sometimes I can't help but wonder about what might have been, but then I remember afternoons on the Brazos. I remember the long drives to South Dakota for pheasant hunting, laughing to Howard Stern and Garrison Keillor. I remember the simple joy of hearing his Randolph Family Band ring tone and answering my cell phone to hear, "Hey Dees. Wanna meet at 4:00 and play nine?"

While I can't hold him; he's here. I still hear his voice. I feel him. I talk to him. All this has taught me that heaven is much closer than I ever thought.

When the time comes, we will play another nine, maybe the back nine for a change. We'll stay and eat hush puppies in the grill afterward. Everyday. Forever.

I don't just believe I'll see him again--I know it. Love does conquer death, as it transforms itself into a

love that transcends space and time.