Farewell, dear boy. You came to my house so very often, just
wanting to write and draw and be. Since you were three you could not hear
because of meningitis. You lived in a world of silence, yet you spoke so deeply
to me and all those around you. With a wave and a smile, you would usher my car
by each day. You taught my children compassion. You taught my children love.
You couldn’t tell Lian how much you were grateful for her friendship, but you
made her bows and arrows that took hours to make. You showed her how to shoot
from them. You made her smile. You rode bikes around my yard and laughed. You
connected with my Aunt’s fifth grade class and without words explained how you
really just wanted to play basketball. You loved doing math sums and were so
proud when your grades at the school of the deaf placed you second in your class.
In your silence, you fought an unseen battle. The HIV/AIDS
that inflicted your family was taking its toll. Your body just couldn’t fight
the battle any longer. Your heart was stopping. Your kidneys were failing. And
money or access couldn’t take the pain away. You fought harder than anyone
imagined or asked. And you knew,
last night, that it was time to go as you said goodbye to your father
when he left the room. He left still wanting to fight, but you knew. Somehow,
across the oceans, my aunt was awoken in the middle of the night and prompted
to pray for you. Without her knowing, they were prayers for the angels to take
you and escort you into the highest place where you could truly live and be
free.
I had the privilege today of picking up your father and
taking him to you. There were no words spoken in the car. Only tears. And the
only words I felt prompted to say were, “You are a good father. God is pleased
with you.” And yet my Kinyarwandan couldn’t do justice to what I really wanted
to say. I could only cry. As I lifted the shroud and placed my hand on your
cold head, I could only say you were a blessed son.
And what can I say to them. My heart breaks for them. You
are their third child to be taken away. One to malaria. One to doctor error.
You to HIV/AIDS. Another miscarried and lost just two weeks ago. Your sister is
left. Her name carries so much weight. Precious. She is precious. And we will
care for her. She will start school this week. She will be loved. So many
people love your family.
I loved your family and I know you needed to rest. Sleep in
peace, dear boy.
