Well Mother, what the war did to my legs and to my tongue, You should’ve raised a baby girl, I should’ve been a better son. If you could coddle the infection They can amputate at once. You should’ve been, I could have been a better son.
From the beginning, everyone was in awe of him. Jeffrey Scott Buckley, called Scotty, was always bubbly with laughter; he would sit in his high chair and bang on the tray with a spoon as if he were keeping a beat with any music he heard. Even when he was baptized at St. Michael’s church, he made his mother smile by looking up and loudly passing gas during the ceremony. He was a blond, pudgy baby boy, a literal golden child.