For parents who have lost a child, there is a day that always looms. It’s the day when you realize that your child has been gone longer than he was here. Today is that day for Jo Ann and me. Our son Pablo died when he was six years and six days old. Today marks six years and seven days that we have lived without him. It’s just another day, in many ways. It’s not like Pablo is any more or any less gone today than he has been since June 28, 2009. And it’s not as if we needed a reminder to know that today was the day.

As Jo Ann and I lay in bed next to each other at night, we are aware of the loss that looms above us, around us, between us. We rarely speak of it. Why would we? Talking about the pain and the emptiness won’t bring Pablo back. Even as I hear the sound of Jo Ann crying herself to sleep on many nights, I know that I can’t take away what is sharp, what is stark, what is felled inside her. The fact is, when we talk about Pablo, we share our fun and funny memories of him. We trade stories about his brightness, his essence-the thrust of his life with us, with our family, with our friends. And, of course, his life with his friends-who are now giants, with opinions and hobbies and Instagram feeds.

So even though our family has learned how to surf the waves of sorrow, there is still something else. It goes something like this: there must be some higher ground, some elevated level of grace and clarity, to come of all of this. Our lives can’t be centered solely on loss. In other words: Pablo’s life and suffering and death cannot define us. And his suffering and death certainly can’t define his life story. We must derive some meaning from that experience and forge on. In still other words: there must be some continuation of our son’s life, and his profound effect on us, and that continuation must be something real and tangible and productive, right?

And it is. Only because we allowed this strange razor-thin ray of light into our lives seven years ago. In the hands of a growing legion of friends, family, and, for many years now, the general public, this tiny light that has grown and grown and grown. Of course, this light I am talking about is The Pablove Foundation. That is the light that never goes out. That is the place where we aim our sorrows, our confusion, our emptiness-in an effort to upconvert all those bewildering, shattered emotions into something productive, warm and altruistic. Into something that feels, well, like Pablo: fun, bright and off the chains.

That light, as it grows in the absence of Pablo, is, for me, the lasting effect of our son. He was a study in Newtonian physics. Constantly talking and laughing and hurtling his body off of things, screaming ‘Geronimo!’ as gravity did its thing with him. That was Pablo: always in motion. Always in observation and comment mode. Always the one with the bright eyes and the wry smile.

It’s the light that is transmitted through all the well wishes that continue to flood in to this day from people like you. People sitting bolt upright in their daily lives. Folks seeing a Pablog blog post, or a Pablove Foundation tweet, and wondering how they would feel if their son or their daughter was in that hospital bed, connected to that IV line, with that metallic taste in their mouth, with that icy feeling in their brain. Everyone, everywhere turning all those fears and questions and how-can-this-be-happenings into love and help and connection.

Today, when we are feeling the immense foreboding that is known so well to grieving parents, and a question such as ‘Where is our boy?’ forms in our heads, the only answer is: he is alive in the work we do, in service of children who have found themselves in that same proverbial hospital bed. We carry this energy, every day, everywhere. We carry this energy in honor of Pablo, of all kids dealing with cancer, and of the countless hours and days our friends granted us. Hundreds of friends who taught us that lots of people doing small acts adds up, very quickly, to a very bright light. We shine the light of Pablove so that we may bring joy, a sense of community, and dignity to others who find themselves on the lonely and bewildering path of pediatric cancer.

We do what we do because we will never forget the feeling of connection and care that comes from simple acts.

This October, I’ll be riding in Pablove Across America for the seventh straight year. If you would like to support me on this journey and raise critical funds that support childhood cancer research, please click here.

  This post was originally published July 4, 2015 on the PABLOg! by Jeff Castelaz, Co-Founder and Chairman of the Board of The Pablove Foundation.