The pain in his eyes tugged at my heart and tore the lining in a soft spot worn thin from worry. Over night, his face had become sunken and shapeless, like the bones had been eaten away by the cancer in his body. Each day grew harder for both of us.

He sipped the homemade chicken broth I brought, wincing each time he swallowed. Not one part of him didn’t hurt. Not one part of me didn’t hurt with him.

The time to say good-bye grew near. Not for the day, but forever...until we’d be together again in heaven. It would be easy to say good-bye to the pain and the cancer, but saying good-bye to my ten year old son, my first born, drove unmeasurable pain into the deepest crevices of my broken.

He winced.

I sucked in my breath and winced with him. “What number?”

“Nine.” His little hands knotted into tight balls.

We had this little game to help him through his pain. He had picked a specific pleasurable activity for each pain level from one to ten. In the past two weeks flying a kite on the beach became a frequent habitue he engaged in often. “What color do you want to fly?” I pretended to dig through a box.

He sucked in his breath in raspy gasps and blew hard, but the pain rattled through his thin form and settled in his sunken eyes. “Yellow.” It came as no surprise. He always picked yellow, his favorite color.

I clutched an imaginary kite and stretched my arms up high. “On the count of three I let go and you take off running, right?”

He nodded and closed his eyes. “One, two, three.” His thin voice reduced to a whisper by the last count.

“Run. Run as fast as you can. Touch the warm sun against your skin. Feel the wind brushing against your face. Keep running.” His face scrunched distorting his features even more. The pain ran with him.

“Release more string. Let the kite fly higher. Taste the sea’s mist kissing your lips, your cheeks, your nose. Jump over the broken sand dollars sprinkled at your feet.” He gulped in great breaths of air.

“See the blue ocean stir and churn up white waves riding across the water. Keep running. Dodge the clumps of seaweed pasted on the sand.” His eyelids fluttered.

“Smell the fish, the damp sand, roasted hotdogs, and toasted marshmallows.” He licked his dry lips between each labored breath.

“Leap over the pieces of driftwood and don’t stop running.” His fingernails dug into the flesh of his palms.

“Listen to the seagulls fighting over a piece of bread crust left behind from someone’s lunch. Hear your feet slapping the wet sand. Don’t stop.” His legs twitched.

Sweat dotted his forehead, his nose, his upper lip. The pain still ran with him. “More string. Keep the kite flying high in the sky. Keep racing across the sunbaked sand.”

I blinked back fresh tears. “Can you see the little stream rushing to meet the ocean?”

He only nodded.

“Don’t slow down. Keep running. Run faster and faster to the little stream. Splash through the ankle deep water, dance around the pebbles, skip across to the other side, and jump free. Now, let go of the kite. Watch it dance across the sky up...up...up to heaven.”

He rolled his head from side to side. His breath shortened to sharp puffs. A moan slipped past his teeth.

Silence intervened.

His eyes fluttered open. His features relaxed, hands unknotted, breath calm. The pain was gone.

I handed him an oyster cracker, his favorite. For a moment I saw a shadow of light flicker in his brown eyes, but vanish quickly, or had it only been the glow from the lamp?

We nibbled the crackers. The occasional crunch between teeth the only sound between us.

“They’re still the best.” His words pushed out with effort.

I nodded and smiled through a veil of tears. “You’re the best.”

A thin smile broke through his tired lips.