Some people are born with a kind of light inside them — the kind that doesn’t just glow quietly, but floods every room they walk into, leaving warmth long after they’re gone. Will was that light.

Around a table at Dad’s house, with laughter rolling easy and stories spilling out faster than the drinks, that’s where you’d find the best of him. It wasn’t about big moments or grand plans. It was about being there — soaking in every second, every smile, every easy punchline thrown across the table.
“If I could relive one moment,” Emily says, “it would be sitting up at Dad’s, laughing with him, enjoying every moment.”
And Alyssa, carrying her own weight of what-ifs, says it too:
"That night... things would have been a lot different if I knew then what I know now."

There are things they still wish they could say, hanging heavy in the air like songs that never finished playing.
"I would tell him he was so loved," Emily says, "loved more than he could have ever imagined."
"That I love him," Alyssa adds, simply, purely — the kind of love that doesn’t ask for anything back.

Because that’s what Will deserved to know. That he wasn’t just loved — he was love. He carried it without even realizing. You could see it in the way his smile lit up a room, in the way his carefree spirit made space for everyone to just breathe for a little while. No masks. No pretending. Just Will, and the comfort of being around him.

They still call him Uncle Bucky — Joey, Elena, Jaxson, Braylen, Neveah, Ryder, Layla, Nova, Zy’aire, and Skilyn. That name holds a whole world of memories, a whole life of messy, beautiful, unforgettable moments.

He wasn’t just a nephew. He wasn’t just a brother — to Emily, Alyssa, Daevon, Billy, Christina, Nicky, and Trevor — or a son to William Lee Lindamood, Rikki Smith, and stepson to Kristen Larrick. He was a piece of all of them. He was laughter on hard days, comfort when things didn’t make sense, a burst of light when the world got too dark.

His grandparents, Andy and Brenda Bates, raised him with the kind of love that wraps around you and stays. They helped shape him into the person everyone misses so much now.

Will is missed beyond what words can carry. Not just missed — longed for.
If there was one wish that ties everyone together — one ache they all share — it’s simple:
"We just wish we could have five more minutes with him."

Five more minutes to laugh. Five more minutes to tell him again and again how much he mattered. Five more minutes just to sit beside that light, one more time.

But the truth is, Will’s light isn’t gone. It’s stitched into every memory. Every story. Every smile that stretches just a little wider because someone, somewhere, remembers how he made them feel.

He was — and still is — the life of every party, the heart of his family, and the love that refuses to dim.

Always.