His name was Myles, not was, but is, and he wasn't even five years old but he died yesterday morning after spending the last nine months or so in the hospital. Yes, it was a brain tumor.
I saw him in rehab when this whole thing had started, it was last summer and we could all see Lake Michigan from his ninth floor window downtown. It was a sunny day, we were all smiling, Myles, too, even his also young roommate who I can still see today.
Why can I still see him, with my terrible memory? Even with that hole in my head from that surgery from the last century?
Myles, I see your face, too. I see your smile. If I were angry, I'd wonder why. But I work with your grandmother, Myles. And she came to work today. She was dressed in black over her sweet Jesus-loving black skin, and when I hugged her tight for ten seconds that seemed like a minute, I couldn't be angry at anyone about anything.
But I am sorry, so, so sorry that this kind of peace came so, so early.
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