STELLA

His diagnosis came with days to live. An abdominal mass was compressing his vital organs. It was inoperable. Go home, and wait, we were told. As I stood in the halls of the hospital holding his swollen body in my arms, tears blinding me, I wondered how much time I had left with my little one.

In his twelve years, he had filled our lives with boundless energy and joy. His sharp and stubborn intelligence was rivaled only by his love for those around him. His bright eyes warmed our spirits, and his distinctive voice sheltered us from loneliness. He loved to sing: every day his falsetto reverberated within the walls of our house—and our hearts.

As he hovered at the cusp of life and death, we stayed close to him day and night, cloaking him in caresses and prayers. We waited, as prescribed. And every evening we expected the night to claim our boy.

Many nights passed. In fact, many months passed before his life came to a close at this time last year. Whether through love or lust for life, he persisted with dignity and strength. Never did he utter a complaint, and the only cry he made was in song. The fortitude he showed in those last months was formidable in one so small.

His tenacity was a revelation. Full of life’s music, his voice knew no reservations—until the confrontation with illness led him into courageous silence. Wordlessly, he taught me how to speak up and when to hold my tongue. He reminded me that from even the smallest boxes come the strongest voices.

I was not with him when he died. I wonder if I should have been there, but I suspect that my presence would only have prolonged his life. Like my grandmother, Estelle, I believe he surpassed his grim prognosis out of a sense of responsibility for his family. A singer lives for his audience. But unlike my grandmother, I believe he wished to perform his last song in solitude.

Cooper, with your music we were never alone. This song is for you.

— LC, 2015