Love is many things, but it is the sole reason I wrote it all down.
It began as a journal—an attempt not to forget. But it evolved into something more, something that took hold of me and wouldn’t let go. Not because it was unimaginably sad, the story of my son’s illness; instead, because it became an intimate message about life, death, and everything in between.
Our stories intertwined—his and mine—woven together with a telepathic flair that often required no words at all. And we weren’t the only ones caught in its pull.
And Ben—though chronologically young—possessed the soul of an old spirit. When he spoke, his words held you captive. You simply had to know more.
I saw in others the spark that brought forth our very essence: it was music. To say he loved music was not enough—he was music.
The discovery of sound mended our inner ruins, creating comfort. Perhaps this is best illustrated by his passion for Michael Jackson, Daft Punk, and The Beatles—a soundtrack that became a lifeline.
And my role? To hold the space. I never asked, Why is this happening? That question was a thief, an intruder that would have robbed me of the only thing that mattered—the present.
Our lives, as we once knew them, were over. And at the moment of his cancer diagnosis, when everything shattered, I fell on the only thing left standing.
There is nothing but love.
