From the Bountiful High Literary Magazine back in '87:
Summer
As a young boy, I never learned the truth. I remember sitting in a third grade classroom thinking of the future, my mind swinging on jungle vines and venturing through caves. Dollar signs glittered in my eyes as falling coins echoed throughout the narrow caverns of my mind. This was my reality. I expected to grow up and be an adventurer, just like the people on That’s Incredible. I was just a child, but ironically, fourteen years old.
The warm breeze brought life as it cut the ice pillars supporting night. As I sat upon the horizon interrupting city lights, I waited for the soft whisperings of summer to renew me once again as it did every year. Grass spoke to my ear; the moon shone soft light on my cheek. School was at last out; my life echoed with summer over and over. I was the final piece of a puzzle created by God’s hand. Footsteps patted the soil; my dad approached. I was living on a sugar cube waiting for rain.
“You had better consider a blue—collar job” fell from his lips and landed on me like a rock on crystal. Clenched in his hand was a cruel paper that screamed to the world my academic mediocrity. “I will” said I as a cloud covered the moon and the grass fell silent. His shadow swallowed my existence and innocence. That’s when I grew up.
Now I have faced the cruel world. It engulfs me. Each day childhood visions fade. I cling to them as I stare out the window before class, and during brief seconds when time stops. But, if I’m careful, sometimes I’ll close my eyes and hear crickets singing outside my window....
-—Tad Clayton
20 Oct 1969-11 June 2002