It's been 18 years since I talked to Tracy. Most days I just remember him, some days are so busy I feel like I never knew him. This time of year I wonder if I could've said or done anything differently. I know so much more now, but I still feel like I don't know anything at all.
Tracy, who my youngest son is named for, was my friend. He taught me to ski, he taught me to catch bass. Tracy turned me on to night fishing with a fly rod and running the flats for trout. Tracy was passionate, but if you weren't close to him you would never know it. He loved the Georgia Bulldog, his old dog Winston, and being a dad. He thought all babies were cute.
Most of the time when I cry I think about Tracy. Usually when I think about Tracy I smile and cry. I never saw Tracy cry, but that doesn't mean he didn't. I'm pretty sure, if I'm as much like him as I think, he cried when his son was born. I know he had a lot of heartbreaks, so I'm sure he cried then. A lot of the time I saw him smiling, sometimes he was a little pissy. Tracy could be pretty moody.
Sometime early in the morning on March 15, 1994, Tracy took a rifle and ended his own life.
There are no days I don't miss him. Some things you can't take back, some things you don't get a second chance to do. I only wish I could have let him know how much I loved him.
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