“He was a dork,” Garcia, now 39, said when asked to describe the boy in the photograph. “He was a little dorky boy. He didn’t care about what people thought of him … high-water pants or whatever.

“Kids would sometimes pick on him and he would think it was funny. He was just full of life and happiness and laughter. He was a little boy of God. He went to church with his grandma on Sundays.”

Feb. 8 marked a decade since “Bubba,” whose name was Aaron Kelly Jr., was robbed of his future, a decade since the 13-year-old computer whiz was taken forever from his mother and two younger sisters.

On that day, they had been enjoying a barbecue at Louis Park to kick off the long Presidents Day weekend when, suddenly, they found themselves caught in the midst of a gang shootout.

Once they had fled to the car they hoped would deliver them to safety, a bullet passed through the driver’s side door, grazing Garcia’s left arm before striking Aaron in the upper left chest, killing him.

All these years later, Aaron’s survivors still dream of the serenity they say never again will be theirs.

“You have to learn to live life all over again in a new way,” said Garcia, who bears a scar on her left arm from the bullet that killed her son.

“It’s like I’m a shattered mirror, where you’re picking up the pieces and putting them together slowly. But you’re never going to get every single piece because it’s shattered. That’s the concept of how I look at it. That little piece is always going to be missing, and that’s Aaron.”

Aaron’s two younger sisters, Marissa and Alana Kelly, are now 20 and 18 years old, respectively. If Aaron was alive today, he would be the uncle of Marissa’s two sons, 1½-year-old Jaylon Aaron Sample and 3-month-old Kameron Sample.

“Jaylon knows his Uncle Bubba,” Garcia said. “He will crawl to the picture. It’s amazing how I feel like he knows him.”

Said Marissa: “We go to the cemetery and he crawls to his headstone and just touches the picture there. He likes to sit there, smile and take pictures. It’s just happy times whenever we go.”

But the happiness is forever tinged with grief.

Garcia said Alana, who was 8 when the shooting occurred, struggled mightily in the aftermath of Aaron’s death.

Marissa and her mother say that the tragedy changed how they interact as a family.

“I’m more to myself,” Marissa said. “I keep to myself. I’m not very outgoing. … Before, it was like (the family) did everything together, it was planned.”

Aaron and Marissa were constant companions on the basketball court.

“He was my partner,” Marissa said. “We played basketball, we both played for YMCA at the same time, watched each other’s games. We were always outside, messing around after homework, playing sports, riding our bikes, skateboard. He was always pushing me to do better. We were always out there shooting a basketball. It was my passion.”

Pondering how life might have been different with Aaron alive, Garcia said, “I think we would have a stronger family bond, for one. For two, I think we’d all be farther along in the processes of life.

“His death did put a pause on things. I didn’t work for several years. I was in and out of depression myself, which caused me to have a problem with alcohol.”

And, in 2011, Garcia attempted suicide.

“I took a bunch of pills because I felt like I couldn’t do it no more,” she said. “And (the suicide attempt) was probably the worst thing I could have done. The worst, but the best thing I could have done with my life.

“It opened my eyes to the reality of what I did. I could have possibly not made it through that, I could have not survived that, and it made me realize how much I did need my kids and love them. I say it was the best thing because I could have continued down that road.”

Four young men, ages 27 to 32, remain in California prisons a decade after the tragedy. Garcia said she has made peace in her mind with the men who stole her Bubba.

“It’s a sad story,” said Garcia, who works for San Joaquin Valley Veterans, an organization that finds housing and prevents homelessness for people who formerly served in the military. “I don’t go to church, but I have worked on forgiveness for a long time. I think that me forgiving lifted a lot off of my shoulders.

“It’s not my vengeance to hold anybody accountable here on this Earth. I can’t say I don’t still feel anger, because anger is always going to be there. That’s a part of life … but I would hope they are all remorseful for what they have done.”

Soon, Garcia’s visitors would leave and Aaron’s mom would take his photo and return it to its place by her bed.

“There are certain things that happen, certain times I feel the real need where I’m really down and I can feel him just trying to make contact with me … just telling me, ‘Mom, I’m OK. I want you to be happy,’ ’’ Garcia said.

“Happiness? I’m working toward it. To me, I’m never going to be super happy because I always have that constant loss in my life. But you have to make the best of what you have.”

Not long ago, Garcia moved from her troubled childhood neighborhood near Louis Park and into a condominium in north Stockton. It was another step away from the reminders of the son she lost.

“It’s a sense of feeling safer, being away from all that and not having to hear gunshots every night,” Garcia said. “The week before last, I spent the night at my parents’ house and heard shots. It brings back bad memories.”

Contact reporter Roger Phillips at (209) 546-8299 or rphillips@recordnet.com. Follow him on Twitter @rphillipsblog.