I suppose my high school English teacher would like to think he made the biggest impression on my life. He loved to quote Shakespeare, Byron and Keats. He could whip up a gourmet French dinner in a few hours, complete with apple torte for dessert. He knew Latin and spoke Japanese. "Class, class, you'll thank me one day," he'd tell us as we groaned about the lengthy books assigned for homework.

But the truth is, two decades later, I have another hero. My hero was only four, could not read or write, and yet he taught me through his short life lessons no adult could ever match.

He taught me to spend time watching lady bugs and toads. They really are amazing creatures and hold so many vibrant colors.

He showed me the strength in being brave and courageous even when the doctors poked and asked a dozen questions.

Sharing the stickers he received in the hospital, he educated me in the value of giving.

And his priorities were intact; he could always stop whatever he was doing to give Mommy a hug.

Through this boy's life and untimely death, he has taught me to embrace each day as if it were my last.

I have learned to hug those I love more often and to tell them how much they mean to me. Today. I may not have them tomorrow.

I have found graveyards to be quiet places of beauty because they hold a magnitude of wealth from all the lives lived.

I have found that sobbing with someone over a loss needs no words of wisdom. It is in the sharing of tears, healing begins. Likewise I have experienced that "grief is not a sign of weakness or a lack of faith, but the price of love."

I have learned that the smoothly running car, the pay raise, the perfectly baked chocolate cake are not the norm but rarities and -- should they happen -- to enjoy them, counting each one a bonus.

And most of all I have learned that even the smallest child can make the biggest mark in a mother's life.

For this hero of mine is Daniel, my son, a boy whose smile produced sunshine. A boy whose only enemy was the cancer inside his little body.

On cool autumn nights I sit on my porch and uncork the bottle of memories. The recollections of this small boy fill me with an indescribable warmth. I have learned that memories live on even after death and that in the remembering there is comfort and love.

Under the Expanded Sky

Educating Merna

Crying With My Ancestors

Opening Grief as a Gift

Living Life from the Graveyard

Surviving the Tinsel

Trees of the Ice Storm

Is There Laughter After Death?

Whatever Happened to the Old?

Out of My Comfort Zone

I Am Not Cheese

As The Sixth Year Approaches

The Dirty Green Van

Judging Pain?

Grief Meets the Answering Machine

Closets, Revisited

Unwinding with a Pen

There is Nothing Wrong with You!

Scared to Death of Dying and Denying Grief

The Night the Christmas Tree Fell

Baking Bereavement Bread

For the Love of Mothers

Bereaved Eyes

The Power of Photographs

Fragrance of Marigolds

Isn't it amazing how we become wealthy, not from possessing material goods, but from the youngest and weakest among us?

Because I knew Daniel, I am wealthy beyond measure. And grateful, forever grateful, for his precious life.