It’s a common misconception that young children despise going to sleep at normal hours for reasons of rebellion or sugar rush, when their true wish is to continue the fun that ceases to be when their eyes close. Those with the ability to harness their dreams, however, get to make all the rules themselves.

Timothy, for example, knew that beds were portals to alternate dimensions. Well… maybe not entirely new planes of existence, but new locations, at the very least. The little ten year-old was… just that: little. But his mind was a true force to be reckoned with.

            He’d talk of his adventures in such vivid detail, descriptive enough that you could make out the scene for yourself. One of his favorites began with him waking up between the velvety sheets of an IKEA bed, the type that was meant to be seen but not slept on (which made very little sense, he’d argue, as they always looked so comfy). Although, this particular IKEA was devoid of prying employees and scolding mothers, instead filled with other bedfulls of his best friends, to whom he claimed he’d taught his “patented dream technique”, as well. Sure enough, there they’d be beside him, packed to the limit beneath plush covers like little human sardines.

            Despite the fact that there were never any adults in sight, cards and snacks and other fun things had to be snuck-in between those covers, almost as though the pure idea of mischief made all nightly activities more enjoyable. It was also, perhaps, to sneak these pastimes beyond the strains of reality, to further shove it in the faces of the almighty that this realm was theirs, and could not be taken away.

Not permanently, at least, for every new morning brought the sunrise that would rip him from his dreamworld, his sanctuary. Days were long and unrelenting, and each one left Timothy more eager to escape than before. Understandably, of course; in what possible scenario would real life outrank dream-Doritos and pillow fights?

            Over time, Timothy—ever the preteen go-getter—became dissatisfied with the repetition of the IKEA, insisting to his friends that they journey to new domains outside that of the jumbo warehouse’s boundaries. This realization, he claimed, did in fact bring the lot of them to a fresh sort of bedding location; a flowerbed to be exact.

            Again—in precise detail—he talked of this blooming dreamscape, the canopy of surrounding trees, the overflow of blossoms in each color of the rainbow. Endless activity eliminated the need for otherworldly games and food; juvenile entertainment (said the ten year-old). As the dreamworld knew no bounds, this freedom allowed them plenty of time to play and laugh and be kids, luxuries not provided within the confines of reality. There were some, though, who wandered past the bed of flowers and into the forestry woods beyond; such friends did not return to his dreams.

            Did not return to his own reality, either. Yes; he began to see less and less of the “old gang” (as he called them), preoccupied with smells that were not fresh flowers, sounds that were not buzzing pollinators, sights that were not sun-bathed fields. These worldly imperfections became clearer and clearer as the days dragged on, error after error gnawing at his attachment to reality, his desire to remain as such.

            It was not long after that the setting changed once more, this time a shallow body of water littered with fallen leaves and golden trout. A riverbed, Timothy recalled, thrilled with this new element they’d stumbled across. Every night he would return to the dream, joyously diving and floating and splashing around with his crew, however dwindling their numbers had become.

It had been Timothy who suggested they swim upstream, to follow the fish on their journey, but again—from a handful of his buddies—that resistance, or lack thereof. They were simply tired, allowing the current to carry them downstream, for why would one go against the natural laws of nature? Tired within a dream, Timothy would grouch, though he knew the bitterness was misplaced. But their time together was so limited; why would they waste it by discontinuing the fight?

            The ever-growing change had him yearning for the past, their days of IKEA beds and Cheeto Puffs, flower petals and grass stains. Most importantly, the people—his friends—once all content together in blissful existence, unaffected by their harsh realities.

Unfortunately, all dreams must come to an end, and Timothy had been fighting his own battle for so long. He, too, was tired.

And so, last week, three nights before his eleventh birthday, Timothy laid upon his final bed. Even after his hair had fallen, even after the third stage of chemotherapy did him no favors, my son smiled through the duration of his deathbed, smiled alongside his remaining friends at Clearwater Children’s Medical Center. For the hours before, he spoke of these adventures, of his plan to then follow those lost pals into the forest and downstream, to a place where they’d all rest together beyond the clouds, beyond the stars. It is in this place that we should see him again, and bring lots of snacks and games, as per request.

I thank you all for being here, for helping to celebrate the life of my little boy. On behalf of Timothy—of my son—thank you.