Welcome to "the wall."

There is so much to say about who Eric was and what he meant to people.
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Kristin Venuti There is a tree in my back yard. It is a young tree, with slender brown braches and the promise of several oversized buds. Everyday I watch the slightly pink petals of this saucer magnolia unfurl a little more. I call it the Eric tree, and gazing at its beauty, I ache with a sorrow, that stings in its freshness.

Steve and I searched for a memorial tree in November, when Eric was killed. I knew at the time that no matter how perfect a woodland specimen we found, it could never close the opening of the Eric-shaped hole in my heart. Instead, I hoped it would remind me of him, of his slender, young life and the person he was unfurling to be. This it has done.

I didn't speak at Eric's memorial. If I had, this is what I would have said. Eric was twenty years younger than I, and yet he taught me more than a few life lessons. From the time of his early childhood he had an innate kindness. He was idolized by my children who were younger than he was, and yet he never abused his influence over them. He treated them with grace and accorded them dignity in a way rare to see in the hierarchy of childhood.

He could be a mischievous child, sometimes up to no good, yet he was always the first to come clean of his petty misdeeds. He was so honest that he sometimes revealed details that his mother and I may have preferred not to hear. He was as the saying goes, all boy.

His journey toward young manhood was a beautiful thing to witness. He had all the outward trappings of adolescence. There were the skateboards, the clothes, the shoes, the music, and experimental hair-styles; all things that cried out "teenager". And yet, he publicly stated that he loved his mom. He genuinely enjoyed hanging out with my children and his younger cousins. He retained a strong sense of what was right and what was wrong. He believed in treating everyone with respect, even kids who didn't possess his social cache.

When his sister Grace was born last summer he was so excited, overjoyed really. Still, I always made a joke of pretending to be concerned about sibling rivalry. The last time I saw Eric, I had given the baby hugs and kisses, and then made a big show of bestowing those on Eric too, ostensibly so he wouldn't feel left out. After the accident I told his mother that I was glad I had made him hug me the last time I saw him. She said, "You wouldn't have had to'make' him hug you, he loved hugs." And she was right. Even when the hugs came from a parental figure. How many teenagers can you say that about?

One of my favorite memories of him is also one of the most recent I have. I was driving him up the mountain to my house so he could hang out with my kids while Steve and I went to a baseball game. We were talking about parents, and how they could sometimes grate. Then he said, "But you and my mom are different, you're like, cool moms." I remember feeling ridiculously flattered that this skateboard-riding, hip hop- rapping, baggy pants- wearing dude thought I was a cool mom. Eric himself was the epitome of cool.

He had an unshakable faith that "God's in His heaven, all's right with the world". It's a faith that I often struggle with these days. And for good reason. How can "all be right" with a world that has no Eric in it? But then little coincidences happen. Porch swings rock for no reason. Photographs leap off of walls. There are hazy dreams that speak of truths. The seemingly comfortless are comforted, for a time, no matter how brief. There is a slender tree with buds of promise that bloom in my backyard, and gazing at it fills me with a faith that inside the ache of my heart, Eric remains in the world.