It has been months since my dad died.

I don’t know that one ever gets used to living in a world without parents. Granted, this, like all things, is relative, as some have parents their entire lives and others never do, but I did and now I don’t.

Turns out, there’s always room for more emptiness.

The concept of the sandwich generation—adults caring for their children while also providing increasingly more care for their own parents—is common enough. Most of us experience some version of it, a life of garnish stacked thick along our respective journeys from one slice to the other. These are the roles we have all been given: we are all the heel, and we are all the hero. Bread puns are optional, but appreciated.

Everything is appreciated.

It is July 31, 2025, and I miss my dad. I miss his love and pride for my boys, and the way he laughed at their antics. I miss his thoughts on the world, religion and politics, even though I rarely agreed with any of them. I miss his constant need for coffee and his want for kindness. I miss missing him, with so many miles between us. But today, mostly, I miss calling to wish him a happy birthday.

We would have sang to him, and it would have sounded awful.

He would have loved it.

My dad, Marana Mayor Ed Honea, passed on November 22, 2024. His service was held on December 21, 2024—a day on which he was honored by Governor Hobbs ordering all flags flown at half-staff—and I was one of the speakers. It was a marvelous event, and our family is forever grateful to the town of Marana for all that they did. After the ceremony, I was asked to make my words available online, which is why I’m here on this website again, some 5+ years after I rode into the proverbial digital sunset. The eulogy for my father is included below, as well as his obituary. There will be more words to come.

A Eulogy

On behalf of the family, I would like to thank the Town of Marana and the community of Marana, for providing this beautiful space, doing the endless work to create this overwhelming celebration of, and for, my father, and for the kind words so many of you have shared in that regard.

Over the years, I haven’t had a lot of opportunity to come back to Marana, but thankfully, in October of this year I was able to take off work and spend some time with my dad, driving through new neighborhoods were nostalgia used to be, learning about growth, improvements and visions for tomorrow: walking paths to everywhere. I attended town functions and the grand opening of a supermarket 17 years in the making. Everywhere we went in the greater Marana area, everyone knew my dad, which, due to his position, wasn’t that surprising, but what really impressed me was that he knew them, too. I mean, he really knew them. He had two stories for every person he introduced me to—both of them nice—his mind a Rolodex of familial lore and business lunches.

In turn, the people I met, without fail, shared their personal thoughts on my father—most of them hardly cursing at all—to the person they were warm, sincere and deeply moving. They had nothing to gain from taking me aside and opening up like that, and they certainly didn’t owe it to me, but they went out of their way to do so because it, he, meant that much to them. There were stories of faith, community, friendship and respect, never a political word betwixt, just generous tales of sincere kindness.

I must admit, it was eye-opening, for as long as he had been a staple of service to the town of Marana, he had been “just dad” all the longer. Obviously, I knew him to be a good man, damn good, but my lens offered a slightly different perspective.

My earliest memories are of sitting on a shrinking lap, a slice of jean-covered thigh quickly losing ground between the random growth spurts of a lanky boy and the constant expansion of an ex-smoker’s belly. I sat there for years sharing tickles, snacks, and forgotten conversations, my sister sitting opposite, bouncing giggles off of red-brick walls, shedding freckles into the ether. There was a montage of facial hair, and I was captivated by its splendor or the sudden lack of it. Everything was long legs and gangly tussles, and I nestled happily in the swell of my father’s content.

The years stretched and the stories we planted sprouted stories of their own—each blooming with milestones, lessons, and the fragrant sweetness of life in hindsight, fond memories wafting down a timeline, always spinning toward what will be beneath the stretching shadows of what has been, the world a blur and somewhat dizzy.

We spent days together that grew into weeks, rolled into months, and segued into years as smooth as you like. I was hanging one arm out the window of a blue and bruised Datsun pickup, home in the welcome give of a worn bench seat, my father popping pistachios in time to an AM radio already out of date. I was bronze and blond, buck-toothed and skinny, my sister in the middle, squeezed to the point of laughter. My father was a smile in sunglasses, a song on his breath, and he was younger than I ever knew. Together we were glorious, a slideshow rolling toward that sinking horizon we spend our whole lives chasing.

Of course, the journey also took us through fields of frustration—fortunately those are all housing developments now—and there were sidetracks and shortcuts, disappointment and heartache, but all days ended in sunsets and every morning the sun would rise. There were birds in the distance and a whistle brought them nearer.

He raised pigeons. And ducks. And geese. And chickens, rabbits, horses, sheep, cows, goats who—and this is true, could eat a whole NERF football faster than I could get into the pen—dogs, cats, hamsters, a ferret and a monkey. And fish, so many that he was deemed Grandpa Fishy by his grandsons.

He delivered mail for decades, a 100-mile route in the Arizona sun. He served his country. He fell in love. He set examples and expectations. He led with kindness and invited you to meet him there. He lived a life worth living.

He cared for his parents, always, but in ways above and beyond through their waning hours. He never left the side of his wife, Jan, as she fought against the cancer that took her far too early.

Generally speaking, there is a clear line between being a character and having character, yet my dad managed both. He was a character with character, a man with simple tastes, folksy, earnest, good-humored, empathetic and honest, but he was also focused, driven, passionate and stubborn. He contained multitudes.

He was proud, but far from boastful, and that pride was centered on two things, the town of Marana and his grandsons. If you ever stepped foot in his home you found yourself in grandkid central, a well-organized museum to their wonder with him the curator, the president of a fan club for three boys who can’t even keep their own rooms clean.

I asked them if they had anything they’d like me share here on their behalf:

Atticus told me, “I always liked how he would take interest in the things I was interested in, like video games and game design, even when he really didn’t understand what I was talking about. He would stand behind me and watch, asking questions and then tying them into other things I was involved in, like my schoolwork or plans for the future.”

Zane added, “It was obvious when you were with him how much he really loved you. He loved his family more than anything. I always felt loved and he showed it—all he ever wanted for Christmas were pictures of us us, the grandkids—just look at his house—or to spend time together as a family.”

Greyson remembers his last trip to Marana, he walked with Grandpa Fishy to the park in Gladden Farms. They didn’t time it right and ended up walking home in the dark. They took a shortcut through the fields behind my dad’s house so they wouldn’t be in traffic. He asked Greyson to be his eyes, which made Grey uncomfortable because it was dark. The path was unknown. It was, admittedly, scary, and it didn’t help that his grandfather filled the time with tales and warnings about the dangers of wild javelina. So yes, Greyson did serve as his grandpa’s eyes, but he did it while clinging to him the entire way back to the house. The javelina, it turns out, wanted nothing to do with them.

My sister’s favorite story is one that she would never let my dad forget, so it’s fitting that she’d bring it up here, just in case he’s listening. Tiffany said, “I remember when he forgot my birthday a million years ago. I wouldn’t let you [me] remind him because I wanted to see how long it would take him to figure it out. After two weeks he realized it and bought me a really nice bike, purely out of guilt. We joked about it every year after. I also got spoiled every year after [I can certainly attest to that]. That was over 20 years ago.” Well over 20 years.

The thing is, each of us are the stories being written and we are all living in someone’s memories. We are the extras, the heroes and sometimes the villains of one another. We are scribbles in the margins and footnotes fondly fading. The shadows we cast grow longer as the days grow shorter. We wax. We wane. We give love. We take love. We pull hugs from handshakes, and the emotions on our sleeves often grow heavy and hard to carry. Life has a way of twisting and testing, and it wrings out the innocence with the sweat and the tears, leaving us in the shade of all that we have built, awkward with gratitude and loving one another. We are connected, intertwined, in ways blatant and all too subtle, but together we are better, and together good things get done.

My dad considered himself blessed to have the relationships that he did, and he wasn’t wrong, but I think there are several of us here who would argue that we are the lucky ones. Our stories crossed—some of us from the opening line, some for a paragraph here or a chapter there, some for but this briefest of moments which we are all sharing now—and the pages keep turning, all the better for having known one another.

If you take but one thing from this ceremony today, please make it this: enjoy your story, be the best you that you can be, and love the people in your life, loudly. Do right by one other.

My dad’s life may be over, but his story is still here, and we are all part of it, always. Embrace the memories of the man you knew, the legacy he has left, and share it with those you meet along the way. After all, there are endless ways to spread kindness in a world that sorely needs it, but talking about my dad is a really easy one. His is a story worth telling.

I am honored that you have allowed me to do my part.

Thank you.

Please note, a portion of the eulogy first appeared in a previous piece dedicated to my father, which he absolutely loved. It seemed fitting to rework it again in his honor.

Memorial program photos courtesy of Town of Marana.

An Obituary

Mr. Eddie R. Honea, age 77, of Marana, who preferred to be called Ed, but would also answer to Dad, Grandpa Honea, Grandpa Fishy, Homer and Mayor, passed away unexpectedly on Friday morning, November 22, 2024, at his residence from a sudden cardiac event.

There were three things that Ed cared about above all else: faith, his family and the Town of Marana.

Ed is survived by his son Whitney (Patricia) Honea, daughter Tiffany (Wynter) Phoenix, beloved grandchildren Atticus, Zane and Greyson, his brother Wayne (Cathy) Honea and sister Pam Bramlett, in addition to countless other relatives who will miss him terribly.

Ed was preceded in death by his parents Wynema and Ray Honea, his wife Janice Lawson and former wife Barbara Coatsworth.

His public service to the Town of Marana spanned nearly 40 years, most of which were spent as mayor, but also included terms on the town council.

Before retiring in 2007, he worked for 29 years as a contractor for the U.S. Postal Service in Marana.

He graduated from Marana High School in 1965, attended the U.S. Naval School of Construction and Pima Community College. During the Vietnam War, he served as a member of the U.S. Navy Seabees, and was a lifetime member of VFW Post 5990 in Marana.

He was a member of both Light the Way Lutheran Church and the Community Christian Church of Marana.

Ed was an incredibly caring and kind man, honest and principled, with a warm, gracious demeanor and whimsical sense of humor. He was always in a room of friends, even when opinions differed. If you met him, he wanted to know everything about you—which he would always remember—and in turn, you would learn everything about his grandkids.

Ed Honea was well-loved, and he loved well in return. You really can’t ask for more than that.

The Marana Food Bank & Community Resource Center was near and dear to Ed’s heart. If you are able, in lieu of flowers, please consider a donation in his honor.

Checks made out to the “Marana Food Bank & Community Resource Center” can be sent to:

PO Box 548
Marana, Arizona 85653

Online donations are also accepted at https://www.mfb-crc.org/make-a-donation.

There was a bird in the garden, reckless in its focus, kicking with both feet like a jackhammer upon drought-dried earth, turning turf for the treats that it hid and devouring them in rapid pecks before tilling again and the twigs sent flying. I sat with a book in my hand framing the world so that it appeared the bird bounced atop a page, digging for meaning beneath the words that I read. It felt an empty escape into a timeless moment with nothing to do but be warm and barefoot, light with drink and content upon the back porch as the bird kicked again at one phrase and feasted quickly on another, for what is a story if not the give of plot and soil?

It dawned on me then, when my family was safe and engaged in their own pursuits, and the land was leaping forward despite terrible actions spurred by cries of ignorance and hate, that something had found me there in a place I had long stopped looking—on a random date on a meandering timeline, and perhaps the final notch at that—I had said my piece and then some, too: I was happy.

That isn’t to say I have not felt happiness in bit and bouts. I have seen it here and there, picked it up and carried it for a while, even worn it like a mask and more often armor, but then, when no one was paying me mind and conversations had turned from my own defense I would put it down again, just as I had found it. Then I would watch it run away, free toward places I need forgotten, and let myself deflate like a balloon untied from a string freshly broken.

This was not that. This was not a feeling but rather a being, it was happiness loose and unfettered, an old companion that had long promised to call again suddenly showing up unannounced to remind me of its missing. We sat together, lost in the comfort of one another, until our eyes grew heavy with time and tonic. To any that glanced my way they would see nothing save a bird on a page, a curious smile and a sky now bright burning itself upon the fumes of fading melancholy—the kind of sunset made for the riding off into, and so we did.

There was laughter in the distance, and it rolled nearer upon the tiny feet of tender thunder. I stood and I turned to greet it.

Love died just before 7:45 on a Tuesday morning, at the exact same time the clock stopped ticking.

“I was crying in class,” said the youngest, an afternoon later. “I was crying and my teacher asked me why, so I told her. She said she was sorry.”

The oldest stayed in bed all day, weighed down beneath the steady stream of his own flowing tears, ignoring texts and whatever was on the TV.

Love, after all, had been his dog.

It had been his fourth birthday, and the two of us had gone to the shelter to find the only gift he wanted, and in doing so, to give one of his own.

The puppy was all licks and wiggles. He was all laughter and plans for their future. For the entire ride home they basked in mutual happiness, and then 11 more years of the same.

What do you want to name the puppy?” I had asked him, our eyes meeting in the rearview mirror.

“Dog Food,” he had replied.

“We’re not naming the dog Dog Food.”

“How about Kitty Cat?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“How about Kitty Cat Food?” he continued.

“She may not like that,” I said. “Give her a name she can grow into.”

And so he thought for the while, down one street and up another, as the puppy moved in as close to him as only a puppy can, curled up and fell asleep, her nose upon his lap.

“I’m going to call her Love,” he said. And he did.

She grew into every inch of it.

On Tuesday morning Love came in the door like any day, fresh from a long night sleeping against a boy’s legs and a few moments of stretching her own. She had already eaten, played outside, been pet by everyone in the kitchen, and was ready for her regular nap. It was as routine as a sunrise.

Then she walked into the boys’ room, and she died.

The clock stopped.

The tears started.

The shock, I think, is something bound to linger, and our love forever longer.

Love was exactly what we called her, and love was all we ever knew.

The happiness was mutual.

There is a gift under the tree that will not be opened. It was there last Christmas and the year before, wrapped in pretty Pixar paper and red ribbon that is sure to fade, as all things do. It will be there next year, too, and for as many Christmases as we have trees to post above it.

Perhaps someday this gift will move away from home, along with my boys, a token of tradition under their own trees. Or there may come a time that it never makes it from the garage at all, left in a box full of memories more distant with each generation, until it is just another thing coated in dust and layers long forgotten.

You never really know what the future may hold.

We know what is in the package. The boys know, too, although the youngest had to ask his brother for a clue this year—the response coming out between a chin falling to his chest and eyes suddenly sullen, dark and lowered. To be fair, it is hard to remember the ghosts of Christmas past when you are only 9 and prone to visions of sugarplums and winter wonder, which is exactly as it should be.

I refused to let death take the holidays from me, too.

The present is addressed to Nana, my mother, who never had the chance to open it. She died suddenly, a car accident on her way to our house two years ago, while I was cleaning the guest room and the boys were sitting by the front door, anxious for her arrival and the joy she brought with her. I let them sit there for hours, passing the time in plans and play, while I paced in the yard and cried into phone calls. I let them sit there as long as I could, holding Christmas with happiness untainted, their grandmother alive and laughing. Then I called them to my side, and I told them that she wasn’t coming.

The gift went unopened and somewhat avoided after that.

I never wanted to be one of those people you see in the movies, bitter toward holidays, curmudgeons of the season hiding behind their respective sadness and the scars that it caused them. However, there was a moment when I considered joining their ranks—assuming, incorrectly, that I had no choice in the matter. Then Christmas came around again, and I decided to stand my ground. I refused to let death take the holidays from me, too.

It helps to have children in the house.

This second annual tradition springs from tragedy.

The boys keep Christmas in their hearts, or at least our secular version of it, with endless innocence and a wealth of kindness. My mother had that, too, and the holiday was her favorite time of the year. It wouldn’t be fair to the kids or respectful of my mother’s memory to let the sadness of the season overshadow the good it has done—and the good it has still left to do.

My sister and I live in different states with mountains between us. This year, just as the last, her family will make the drive to visit ours, and we will celebrate Christmas together—not on the day that the calendar has suggested, but on December 23, the day of our mother’s passing. It is bittersweet, a tinseled twist of magic and melancholy, our children laughing and running everywhere but to Nana.

This second annual tradition springs from tragedy. It’s filled with tears, laughter and countless toasts of wine. It is our new Christmas Present, loving the past with an eye to the future, and a gift under the tree that no one will open.

This piece was first published on Mom.me in 2015

The day Valentine died was hard, the day before was almost manageable, but the day before that was awful.

Valentine died on a Monday, but it was on Saturday when we decided that Monday would be her last day. We made the appointment, and I cried. I laid on the bed with her, and I cried. We told the boys about her appointment, and I cried. I looked at pictures of her, and I cried. I went to work, and I tried not to cry.

Valentine was 15 and a 1/2, and I had known her all but 8 weeks of her life. She was a Valentine’s day gift from Whit in 2002. He rescued her from the shelter the day before she was scheduled to be euthanized. Her short life was almost over because nobody wanted her and her little overbite.

Losing a pet that has been with you as you moved 11 times, as you had babies, as you grew and matured, is like losing a part of yourself and your past that you will never get back.

The boys loved Valentine all their lives. They are now 14 and 11, and they have never known a life without her. I was, and wasn’t, surprised at their reaction to her passing. They cried and cried and cried. I did too, but sometimes, especially at their age, it is hard to elicit an emotional reaction from them. That was not the case this time.

Valentine had cancer. She had a large tumor growing on the joint above her left “elbow.” A year ago the vet said it would be too painful to operate, and even if they did they weren’t sure they could remove the entire thing. They also said it may never heal, and she would likely be in pain and suffer if we did it. We decided to keep her healthy and let her live her best life, which included lots of naps, treats and love. Her tumor finally opened Monday morning, the day we had already decided would be the last we could justify our own want to keep her alive. We had an appointment scheduled at 4:30, but we decided to take her in early because she was clearly in pain and distress.

Though the boys weren’t in the room for the procedure when it happened, they were in the lobby, crying in a room of quiet strangers, a candle burning on the counter.  It was painful for us, but it let Valentine end her suffering.

The boys learned a valuable lesson Monday. Though we don’t want to let them go, and we want to be selfish to be with them one more day, sometimes the right thing to do is let a loving pet be at peace.

Some lessons hurt more than others.

He is on the couch now, half a room away and then some, lost in pixels and buttons, a puppeteer of animated action, a digital deity. His little brother is a leg’s length from him, offering color commentary in true sidekick form, their feet twisted together beneath a forgotten truce and a couple of Cheetos.

The morning will bring a birthday. His first year as a teenager will officially be complete, a trial run filled with free samples of angst and two for one eye rolls. He will now be in the thick of it, his growth a chart of pains and pangs, his smile full of warmth and metal. Fourteen, one better than a baker’s dozen, and all the things with it. The couch keeps getting smaller.

It’s starting to be a pattern. For instance, about a decade ago he turned four, then suddenly he was six. He did it again at 10. Some years were happy, and some were sad. Some didn’t get written about at all, so they probably didn’t happen. Life is unpredictable like that.

The bottom line is, Atticus turns 14 in the morning, and we’re the real winners here.

Happy birthday, you kind, funny, smart and empathetic kid. And thank you, for everything.

“We’ll play handball at the park.”

“It is supposed to rain.”

“Then we’ll get wet.”

And so, like 10 before it, Zane’s only want for his 11th birthday was a sleepover playdate with schoolmates.

“We can have pizza this year,” he said. “It will be easier than tacos, but two kids are allergic to dairy, so we should get vegan cheese. And a vegan cake. And vegan ice cream.”

“But it’s supposed to rain,” I said, imagining a dozen tween boys, soaked and trapped indoors for all of an evening and well through the morrow. I could feel the walls drawing closer, like a sack taut with wetness, and a scent of pending burlap.

“We’ll find something to do,” he said.

This is his thing, his heart’s desire. He enjoys laser tag as much as the next kid, bowling and balloons, trips to the trampoline, but those are not how he chooses to spend his birthday. He only cares for hours of camaraderie, late nights of laughter, and the more the merrier. He wants friends to feel welcome in a home worn with invitation.

“We’ll sleep in the living room,” he added, “so there is room for all of us.”

I look around the room, it is open and bright, guaranteeing an early rise to what will surely be too late of a fall. I do the math on what that means for me.

“And since there isn’t any school on Friday, we should have everyone over on Thursday. They can walk home with me after school, and play all day Friday so their parents don’t have to pay for a sitter.”

His face is deep in dimples, hooking a smile upon the corners of each eye, and there is no questioning of this plan. It is good. It is sound. He is set, warm and confident.

“But what if it rains?” I ask, once more with feeling. “You guys will be stuck inside and there aren’t enough video games for everyone.”

“No video games,” he said, for the first time in his life. “We’ll only do things we can do together. That’s the fun part.”

How does one argue with that, and why in the world would they?

Zane is everything and open arms, a hug at the ready, and I agree to his request like we both knew I would. Then he ran down the hall to tell his brother and his mother about the storm rolling in, and I looked out the window at the weather we won’t be heeding.

The street was mostly dirt with random spots of shade. It was straight as a ruler and countless inches longer. I walked it daily, my pet leashed to my side, tethered by responsibility and one-sided conversation. Then the road opened like a sprint, took a quick, deep breath, and headed for home. We chased it there as fast as our feet could take us.

There were late afternoons when I was charged with cleaning the pen, a 20-minute job that took a few hours straight as the boy flies; feedings twice a day; and great lengths gone to in hopes of building trust and the facade of friendship. Everyone but the lamb knew that it would die, and sometimes at night I would sneak outside, stand by the gate, and think about setting it loose upon the road forever. But I didn’t. Instead I would feed it a handful of hay and say the things of starlight and lies. I could feel my innocence fly just a little further away, and I wondered if it was worth it.

Months flipped like a calendar, a montage of life across various seasons, shoes and bare feet, sunsets, and the laughs we had. Then it was spring, or Arizona’s version of it, and I found myself at the county fair, dressed in brand new blue jeans and the green shades of 4-H in bloom. I would tend my sheep in a row of endless wool, a flock of strangers divided by wire, some named as an afterthought and others who believed that somebody loved them. Their cries carried on the cool springtime air, stretching from the barnyard stench toward the glowing carnival lights always spinning, cotton candy sparkling in midway magic, and finally fading somewhere between hope and a Ferris wheel.

The sheep were judged, sold at auction, and gone in a moment. They wound up in trucks, placed on plates, and somewhere deep in the belly of a memory. I had money in my pocket and a few months to forget, then we did it all again.

It went on for years, each starting with a new pet that I adored and ending with a hundred bucks that felt more like a million. I went through moments of naive denial, a share of shame, and enough growing guilt that I finally faced my family and called it quits. It was time for greener pastures.

All in all, raising animals for slaughter seemed a terrible way to teach a message, and I went decades without ever eating a lamb but for one time when I didn’t realize it—a bite 30 years removed, and then it all came pouring back.

There had been a cow named Strawberry wandering free in our yard until she landed on the table. There had been chickens, ducks, pigeons, pigs, goats, and all manner of beast and fowl, every one of them eaten but the monkey, the ferret, the cats and dogs, because lines have to be drawn somewhere.

We had to buy a bigger freezer.

Decades later, when my wife and I decided to become vegetarians it was a surprisingly easy decision despite both of us growing up in homes where meat was a matter of course, every course. I honestly don’t know why it didn’t happened sooner.

The facts about vegetarianism are obvious: it is better for our health and it provides a brighter future for the planet, not to mention the compassion and kindness that come with loving living things instead of eating them; however, we didn’t make the boys join us. It had to be their own decision.

The oldest, nine at the time, was in immediately. He was always uncomfortable with the idea of meat, preferring his animals alive and fluffy. His signing up didn’t surprise us one bit.

The youngest, then six, became the bearer of bacon. He supported us in theory, but some things cannot be rushed into, and swearing off hamburgers, in his world, was one of them.

It was six months later, after watching Babe, the movie about a talking pig that isn’t Charlotte’s Web, that he turned to me on the couch and said, “I want to become a vegetarian.” And he did.

Today, nearly five years later, the kids are far more adamant than my wife and I in terms of questioning waitstaff about gelatin, lard, or stock. They stand in grocery aisles reading labels and judging the world accordingly. They spend their weekends at animal sanctuaries like The Gentle Barn outside of Los Angeles, hugging cows and snuggling turkeys. The boys are healthy, happy, and more responsible by the day, despite the fact that I have never made them eat a single pet.

Our conscience is clear, and our dogs sleep soundly.

Zane is turning 10 in a sleeping bag, whispering loudly and laughing with classmates. He wanted a birthday party, something we have unintentionally avoided over the years, choosing instead to time family trips and fun events to his mark upon the calendar, but 10 is a big deal and big deals are special. Big deals get a party.

“I want a party with some classmates,” he said.

We asked him what he wanted to do and where he wanted to go, listing all of the options he had been quick to appreciate while attending the parties of others.

“I just want to have a sleepover,” he said. “We can have a taco bar, just make sure you get non-diary stuff because A— has an allergy. If we get a vegan cake that will be good, too.”

And so he invited a few kids from class to his sleepover and taco bar extravaganza.

“What kind of decorations would you like?” we asked.

“I don’t want any decorations,” he said. “I just want to play, and then we can watch some movies.”

“What kind of gifts do you want?” asked his friends.

“You don’t need to bring any presents,” he told them. “If you want to spend money you should donate it to a charity that helps animals. That would be a good gift.”

“Who the hell are you?” we said.

But not really.

That would be the funny way to wrap this up. It would probably get a bunch of likes on Facebook and some chuckles in the comments, but the fact is, that’s him. That’s Zane. He’s ornery, full of sass, made for mischief, strong as a bull and smart as a whip. He is far funnier than I should ever admit. And he is kind. He is so damn, wonderfully, amazingly, wholeheartedly kind.

That’s a pretty good gift, too.

“Maybe in the morning we can have some breakfast,” he said. “Something that everyone can eat.”

“Of course,” we said. “It’s your party.”