During the summer of 1993, my wife (at that time), and I were informed that her parents were going to adopt a child, Justin, from Bryan's House.  Bryan's House is a place where children born with the Human Immunodeficiency Virus (HIV), can go and enjoy a somewhat "normal" life.  My wife, Jennifer, and I had a 14-month-old son, Parker, at that time.  Parents are somewhat prone to irrational fears, when it comes to the safety of their children so it was that Jennifer and I were the embodiment of that statement.   The "what if" scenarios ran the gamut from blood spill to vomit.  Would I even let Parker be around Justin?  It was not that I was ignorant about the Acquired Immunodeficiency syndrome (AIDS) and its transmission, but that being a parent I wanted to protect my child from any danger, no matter how small.   Those fears were soon put to rest, and it would not be long before this disease would touch my life by robbing me of someone I loved, and with that theft came the breaking of my heart.

Justin was born to a Hispanic woman and a black man; both were infected with the AIDS virus.   Justin was two years old at the time of adoption and he was the cutest little boy I had ever seen.  The blending of Latino features with African was quite beautiful.  His skin gleamed like bronze and his hair was fine and black.  His eyes sparkled in such a way that they would draw me in with their excited mischievous look.  While admiring this beautiful boy; I had to remind myself that his time on this earth was numbered with fewer digits than most.

For the next two years Justin worked his way into my heart, finding a special deep recess in which to dwell.  He and I used to play the "tickle game" every time I was over at his house.  He would lie across my legs, on his back, and not move a millimeter.  If I detected any movement whatsoever, I had to tickle his tummy.  Justin had a laugh that could turn up a smile on the sourest of faces, one of those infectious laughs.  I'm not sure if Justin or I laughed harder, but I do know that many times I had to wipe the tears of joy from my eyes.

The AIDS virus had worked its way through Justin's body by the time spring of 1995 came around.  Our "tickle game" time was now relegated to "loosening the phlegm in his chest" time.  Justin would lie across my legs, on his stomach, and I would gently, but firmly, pat his back to loosen the phlegm that caused him difficulty in breathing.  The AZT treatments (a drug given to Aids patients) were no longer giving the effective relief they once did.

When I arrived home from work, one warm June night in 1995, Jennifer told me I should go to her mum's house to see Justin.  I had known this day was coming.  It had just arrived too soon and nothing could have prepared me for that particular evening.  I entered Justin's room, a dichotomy of bright childish colors with the dark weight of death.  He was lying on his back in his bed, gazing up at the ceiling.  As I moved over to his bed his mum told him that I was there, "Parker's dad."   He was barely coherent; I was non-coherent for fighting back the tears.  I held his hand, it was cold and lifeless and I watched his chest expand and collapse with every breath.  At times I could have sworn that his chest was about to explode.  I prayed my most earnest prayer ever, "God, take Justin to play with you in a mansion with a thousand toy rooms, give him the tickle game and story times like I did.  Let him suffer no more, take him from this life, this pain."

The call came seven hours later; Justin was gone.  I was filled with sorrow for my loss but overjoyed for Justin's gain.  My heart had been broken and AIDS had robbed me of Justin, whom I loved.  Whoever said, "it is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all," must have met someone as special as Justin.