Making Music

He drums his fingers on my arm
Like he's playing a song
His breath, the notes
Go on until they don't

Easy Come, Easy Go

His skinny legs strut around the floor like he owns the place. His bald head sticks out of his dark blue hospital gown, which billows like a cape as he runs down the hall. His IV pole rattles on, wheels wobbly, tired of moonlighting as a skateboard. He does a killer rendition of a Hannah Montana song. He uses both hands to plug his ears when I try to sing along. He break dances without missing a beat, between lines coming out of his chest and tubes coming from each kidney. He had a bone marrow transplant last summer. That was then. Now he's quiet. He sleeps. His gown doesn't billow. His IV pole is still. The doctors read his latest scan. It's not good. They've found tumors in his leg, his belly, the bottom of his brain. His mom cries. He comforts her, "don't worry mom," he says, "tumors come and go." He's 7 years old. He fills my heart and breaks it.