Caleb

Little Caleb.  And when I say little Caleb, I mean little Caleb.  He was one of the littlest guys in the children's cancer ward.  He was always a silent warrior of neuroblastoma.  I never heard him complain, and I never saw him cry.  His eyes always held a gentle, sweet sadness.  Any questions you asked him always got the same reply: "Caleb".  How are you today?  Caleb.  Would you like a sweet?  Caleb.  The thing I remember most about Caleb is that, despite the fact that both of us could not understand each other's language, it didn't matter.  The love we shared easily broke through all communication barriers and we knew what we were saying.  His little body fit so easily into my embrace.  He allowed me to hold him for hours, singing to him, rubbing his back, kissing his cheek.  He silently and completely absorbed all of the love and comfort I could give to him.  He would wrap his little arms around my neck or my waist and hug me just as long as I was hugging him.  Caleb taught me that love doesn't need to come with a price tag, or grandiose gestures.  Sometimes, a simple hug and holding onto the ones who mean the most in our lives do just fine.