I can still remember the smell of the cracked brown leather and cigarette smoke from Little Eddie’s secondhand silver wheelchair.  Those cracks absorbed the smoke from the adults who smoked, and they ALL smoked.  I hated that smell but loved seeing Eddie.

My Grandma Millie’s neighborhood was full of kids, and the field between my grandma’s house and the Jennings’ house was “home base” all summer long.  We’d play kickball, baseball, or just tag around the broken-down cars, and then cool down with grape Kool aid from my grandma’s plastic pitcher, or the garden hose at John Decker’s house.

Each day, Eddie would be pushed out onto the edge of the field by his younger but much bigger brother, Anthony.  Eddie was older than the rest of us kids, but he was smaller than everyone but me.  I was always the runt of the litter.  Eddie’s arms were like buggy whips and I’d have to hold his hand up to give him a high-five, but I would always see his big smile when our hands slapped.  Even though he was in pain, Little Eddie always had a smile for me.  He had a smile for everyone.

Little Eddie had advanced Muscular Dystrophy and couldn’t move much by my eighth summer, but he was an inspiration to me.  His mother would bring out medicine around noon – I didn’t know what it was, but it seemed to make him feel better.

Every day, we’d slap hands, he’d smile, and the rest of us would play.  I would catch a glimpse of him from time to time and I could tell he was hurting.  I didn’t understand much about the world, but it sure made me sad to see him in pain.

Little Eddie passed that summer I turned eight, but I never forgot how he made me feel when we slapped hands.  His smile was bigger than the pain, bigger than the disease, and bigger than my loss.  He helped me learn that tomorrow is never promised to any of us, and I never forgot that lesson.  Bless you, Little Eddie!