I remember your squeaky kindergarten voice and little boy truck noises. You were an action-packed kid, knees scraped from tree climbing, your beautiful blond hair plastered down with sweat from dashing about in your home-made super hero cape. I'll never forget looking out the kitchen window just in time to spot you whizzing by on a skateboard. In one hand you held the dog leash attached to our black lab, Moonshine, who towed you down the street. In the other hand you held a squirming snake. Your joyful boyhood warmed my mother's heart.
Then the cancer came. It stole your energy, your hair, your school days, and many of your friends. But it couldn't steal your spirit.
I remember your glorious pranks! As we walked across the clinic parking lot you would spot an unsuspecting stranger, and slap the street sign when they weren't looking. As it reverberated you would hold your bald head and groan while they exclaimed "Are you okay?"
Remember, the bottle trick, Chris? Whenever you finished a bottle of water you would hide it in you hand and squeeze it while bending over and grasping your back with the other hand. The crinkling noise sounded just like bones cracking! Sometimes folks would rush over, then you would hold up the bottle and crunch it for them while we all shared a laugh.
I miss how you used to tease me. I never could find my car in crowded parking lots, so you diagnosed me with "parking lot disorder". When I frequently misplaced items you used to say that I was blonde in another life! Oh Chris, what I'd give to hear you tease me again.
When you were dying, you knew it before anyone else. You told us before the doctors made it official. You calmly accepted the fact that you would never see 15. You also told us that the Lord was coming for you soon and that you were looking forward to going to heaven. Chris, you comforted us as you spoke so confidently of eternity.