I thought him precious, and wonderful.
I did not love him ‘in spite’ of his challenges, nor did I
love him ‘because’ of his challenges. I loved him, and love him still, because
he was mine and I was his. I was grateful for every second of the time he was
with me, grateful for every kiss, every smile, every tantrum and demand.
I did not call him ‘warrior’ simply because he fought
battles. I called him ‘warrior’ because Khyle won battles, and because on every
occasion in which his will was a factor, my son came home to me.
I thought him precious, and wonderful.
How quickly life can change.
One day he was here, and it seemed the next, he was gone,
and all the in-between had been irrevocably and completely rearranged.
How quickly life can change.
One day, his star burst brilliantly into living flame,
rearranging the night sky, reordering the course of the stars, rivaling the
sun. I blinked, and it was gone. And I was left with the afterimage burned onto
my retina, etched into my sight so that wherever I look, he is there. I hear
the song of his voice, and feel in my skin the tenderness of his touch, and it
seems his star blazes anew in the desolate sky.
My son inspired me to sing. I sang to him of his soul, and
his nature. I sang to him of my love, and God’s love for him. I sang to him of
the fact that he was ‘cool as ice, and twice as nice.’
My son inspired me to tell stories: he refined my life as an
author, through the spinning of the tales of Khyle The Warrior, brother to Princess
Maya the Joyful.
My son inspired me to play my guitar. He knew the sound of
my instrument so well that he was always excited to hear the guitar, as anyone
who watched him listen to music can attest. It was so ingrained in him – that
relationship between me, him and the guitar – that he would rage if he was not
with me shortly after I played.
My son inspired me to be bold: I, who had no knowledge or
craft, became a diplomat in the service of my country in order to see that my
son had access to the best medical care in the world. I took my wife and
daughter, and our dear friend Mrs. Pat, on a journey of thousands of miles, and
we found ourselves welcomed into a new and different family in Rockville. That
was Khyle. This was his journey, and we were just along – thank God – for the
ride.
I thank God for my son. I thank God for him exactly as he
was, and is. I will not remember a boy who ran and played, but a boy who
struggled mightily to tell me over his tracheostomy how much he loved me. I
will not remember a boy who sang and danced, but a boy who gloried – yes, a boy
who joyed – in my touch and my presence, who timed his tantrums to coincide
with when Daddy was home from work. A boy whose face was bathed in my kisses,
and whose ears rang daily with the litany of ways in which I loved him.
Though I called him ‘warrior’ and loved him fiercely and
deeply, as a warrior deserves, he was my wonderful, precious little boy. And I
love him still.
