The boy and the door.

The door swung open a little wider. Not all the way, but just enough so the boy could better see what was on the other side.

He had tried to peek at what was on the other side many times, but never had the courage to open it all the way. This time, the door stood more than half way open. It seemed to open this far all by itself, allowing the boy to see more of what was on the other side.

In times past, he imagined wonderful, exciting, adventurous things on the other side of that small opening. He couldn’t see much, the door had been only slightly open....so he really didn’t know for sure. There was light, and there were people, and sounds, and there were things going on he wanted to be a part of. But it was just his imagination at this point. And it just felt right.

He perceived whatever existed on the other side to be a place he wanted be. A friendly place. A comfortable place. A place that would accept him with open arms for what he was: a simple boy with simple dreams and simple ambitions beyond what his years belied.

The old soul within him would continue to burden him all his life, until he grew older...much older.

It was Saturday, June 13th, 1962. His mother woke him up.