I'm just shy of eighteen, but inside, I'm still that boy you left behind years ago. That disease stole who you were away from me when I was just a boy in the 5th grade. After the surgery and when your treatment was at its worst, my days screamed isolation. A black hole replaced your warmness at a place that no longer felt like home, and the happiness was sucked out of all of us. You spent weeks at a time in the hospital, and those were the weeks when my little 11 year old heart was breaking, crumpling under the horror of seeing you covered in IVs, weighing nearly half of what you used to. Your eyes sunk in, and you were the skeleton of someone I used to know so well. Holding your hand terrified me, but oh how it was to hold the hand of a fighter, such a fighter. But those fights, I think, made you lose your joy. Too much fighting made you forget what you were fighting for, and sometime during it all, you lost who you were. Cancer did not just eat away at your body; it devoured everything you were to me. And now every day as I head out to school, I half smile, half wave to this woman that
used to be "mom."