James was a hard working man.  His job in the Southern mills consisted of long, hard hours, but he didn't really mind.  Waiting for him at home were the two things that meant the most to him, a sympathetic wife and a darling young son.  "God's greatest gifts," he would tell others, never needing to remind himself.

Due to his wife's free spirit, which was unusual in those years, she had raised their son to openly display his emotions.  Many of James' friends thought this wasn't very "boyish" of his son, but James made no secret in the fact that he welcomed it.  Mostly because his son, unlike any other boy he knew, had no hesitation to say, "I love you, Dad."

On Sundays the mills were closed, allowing James the luxury of enjoying his family.  He would often take his son on long walks, leaving his wife with the rare free time to read quietly by the morning light.  As James walked up the wooded hillside next to his son, he always cherished the moment when he felt a small, soft hand silently slip into his large, rough hand.  He was aware that someday his son would be too old to want to hold his hand, but those days were still far away.

Late one night, his son crawled into bed with them, crying that he didn't feel well.  James felt his son's forehead.  It was warm, but not as hot as fevers he had experienced in the past.  James' wife got up and put a kettle on the stove, believing that perhaps some hot tea might sooth the boy.  James picked up his son and carried him around, hoping the bobbing motion would squelch the crying.  This worked for a while, but when James tried to put him down, his son's sobs turned into screams.  His wife offered to take him for a while, but the child was adamant about wanting his daddy.

The hours passed.  James sympathy turned to frustration.  He had to get up in just a few hours to work at the mill, and he was exhausted.  He tried again to put his son down.  Again, it didn't work.  Finally, in a storm of fatigue and aggravation, James insisted that his son let his mother hold him.  The boy wailed.  James rushed off to bed, holding his pillow tightly over his ears.  Soon, he was asleep through the guilt.

Morning came too fast.  James rushed out the door and barely made it to work on time, gauged by his supervisor's long, unspoken gaze.  He later thought that perhaps he had been late after all when his supervisor came over and said he needed a word with him.  James immediately began explaining that his son had been sick and how he had kept him up so late leaving him with very little sleep until...

"We know," his supervisor interrupted."  Your son's doctor is waiting to speak with you."

How bad could it be?  Where was his wife?  Why isn't the doctor speaking with her?

The good aren't the only to die young, but we take notice more when they do.  Death can be cruel.  Acting without warning, without sympathy, without bias.  And death sometimes comes for little boys.

Dealing with the loss of his son was close to impossible.  Unfortunately, James had the added burden that he had passed off his son in his son's hour of need.

"If I'd only known that that was the last night I was going to get to hold him, I would have never let go."

I never learned the names of his son or his wife.  That information was too hard for James to bare.  But his pain stands as a reminder to all the parents out there.  Hold on as long as you can.  The next time you hold your child may be the last.