“He’s going to be, buddy. He’s going to be.”
Week four, Ethan got worse.
I still showed up every day. Sat next to his bed. Held his hand. Read him stories even when I wasn’t sure he could hear me.
“Bear?” His voice was barely a whisper one afternoon.
“I’m here, buddy.”
“I’m scared.”
I squeezed his hand tighter. “I know. I’m scared too.”
“Will you hold my hand? When it happens? Will you be here?”
I couldn’t speak. Just nodded. Tears running down my face into my beard.
“I wish you were my dad,” he said. “You show up every day. You’re not scared of me being sick. You don’t leave.”
“Promise me something else?”
“Anything.”
“Promise you’ll tell my daddy it’s okay. That I understand why he couldn’t come. That I love him anyway.”
This seven-year-old dying child was worried about his father’s feelings. Was trying to make sure his father didn’t blame himself.
“I’ll tell him, buddy.”
“And Bear? Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for making me a biker. It’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”
He fell asleep after that. I sat there for hours. Just watching him breathe. Memorizing his face. This little boy who’d taught me more about courage and love in four weeks than I’d learned in sixty-three years.
