I never spoke much about the little boy, and nowadays no one expects me to. You can look at me and not expect me to know anything about radiation or chemotherapy. You can hear me say “rhabdomyosarcoma,” and not realize that this mouthful of a word meant a mouthful of a tumor. It may look easy for me to pretend that I never knew the little boy. But I can still trace the port scars on his chest. I will never let myself forget.

Imagine for a moment you’re the boy. There’s a tumor growing on the roof of your mouth, a mass the size of your mother’s thumb hanging upside down on your palate. She found it while she was flossing your teeth. It’s been difficult for her to leave your side since. You don’t quite understand “cancer,” but “you’ll understand when you’re older.” “Will I get older?” You can’t help the thought. Your hair is beginning to fall out, but you look spectacular bald. You look spectacular no matter what. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

“It’s okay,” say the nurses and the doctors and your parents, because you’re never alone. But something’s missing, isn’t it? Shouldn’t you be out playing kickball with other little boys, laughing as you make a home run? No, “neutropenic” means you can’t get out much (your body isn’t quite ready for that yet). So you occupy yourself otherwise. Instead of swinging a bat, you train your imagination. Your Little League is the mind. You dive headfirst into books, film, and the beautiful tidbits of life that you wish you had. You become a storyteller. When your hair starts to grow back, you become a story to tell.

You are miraculous because you will survive. Years will pass and you will never lose that wonder and craving for the fantastic. You will never lose your amazement at the way the sunrise makes a rooftop glisten or at the crunch of a fallen leaf on a brisk day. You will yearn to make up for the experiences you have lost time with. You will fall in love with the lightning that courses through your fingertips when you’re writing, the same lightning that radiates from your favorite films and novels and poems. You will blossom into something altogether new. I am what you become.

To forget this story would be to leave the boy behind. The boy flows through every careful decision I make. He’s why I will never play a contact sport. He’s why I am kind. He’s why I feel the need to tell my story and hold his little hand as he lies there in the MRI machine, unmoving, thoughts dancing in his mind about his own mortality. Death is such a small word for a thought so big. Death is such a big thought for a boy so small. The boy is why I write.

Despite how much I owe the boy and how much of me will forever be him, I used to rarely bring him up. Maybe I wanted to be viewed as more than the boy, but in neglecting him, I made myself less than I am with him by my side. He is my foundation. He is a survivor. He has been given a second chance at life to tell the stories he wishes to tell and to spread the hope he has in his heart and he will not waste it. He is a miraculous and unforgettable gift. So before I leave this chapter and move on to the next, I want to thank the boy. I embrace him and tell him that he is not something to fear. This time around, we walk into this future, hand in hand. You, who loved movie night; you, who loved tales of heroes and triumph; you, who loved our world, will always be a part of me.