Today, on the way home from school, you cried. These weren’t tears of frustration, or disappointment.
These were tears of sadness.
It started innocently enough. You wanted some of my spice drops.
You love candy. You can spot it a mile away, and you turn on the charm to try to get it. It is quite a sight to see. Today you asked if you could have some of my spice drops as we were getting ready to drive home. I said “Not now.”
You countered with “Can I have some when we get to the road outside of our neighborhood?”
And so I said “You can have some of my spice drops when we reach the big hill.”
And so we settled in for a long drive. We chatted about your day, and about the games you played, and we chatted about our friend, Scot, who is coming to visit this weekend.
Scot was the officiant at your mother and I’s wedding and is a tremendous friend. You mother showed you some of our wedding pictures, because you were curious who he was, and you started to describe to me all of the people you saw in the pictures.
Of course, there were quite a few people at our wedding, and so you went on for a little while you listed all of the people you recognized.
And then, quietly, you asked “Daddy, who are Grammie Curran’s parents?”
I enthusiastically told you about your
Great-Grampa Curran and your Great-Gammie Curran, and how they were tremendous people, and how much fun we used to have seeing them.
And you asked the inevitable question “Where are they, Daddy?”
And, even though I knew this was going to rapidly get complicated, I told you.
“They have died, babe.”
You began using the words “dead” and “died” about a month ago. You related it to falling over, lying still, and not responding to anything, which means you have grabbed the issue by the right end. But you obviously have only the most rudimentary concept of what it means.
And you responded “Where did they die, dad?” Reticently I told you, keeping it brief and hoping we could still move on without delving too deep.
You headed back into territory that is slightly more upbeat by asking me if you could see any pictures of them, to which I said “Yes, we have pictures of them both and it would be fun to look at them together.”
Then, as you tried to define a little bit more about death, you asked the next logical question, “Do we have any pictures of them after they died?”
I assured you that I did not, and explained further that this is not something we typically do in our culture, though I don’t have any real reason why.
You pressed on into unknown lands and asked “Did Grammie Curran get a new mommy and daddy?”
You listened intently as I explained to you that your Grammie Curran loved her Mommy and Daddy very much, and that she was old enough that she did not need new ones.
And you thought about it for a minute or so and then you said matter-of-factually “Grammie Curran isn’t dead, though.”
Heartily, I agreed “No, your Grammie Curran isn’t dead.”
You returned to your own quiet thoughts for a few moments, but then you asked “Is
Zsiga dead?”
Now Zsiga is an old dog. I think he is fourteen. He is going blind, and he sleeps a lot, but he is still very much alive. I figured at this point that you were just extending the previous line of thought to Zsiga, since the only time you have seen him is with your Grammie Curran.
Quickly, I answered “No babe, Zsiga isn’t dead; he is just living with Grammie Curran.”
And from the back of the car was silence.
Then, very softly, you told me “Grammie Curran will be very lonely when Zsiga is dead.”
And about halfway through your statement you burst into tears.
Even though we were driving, I reached around to hold your hand and I told you “Yes, babe, Grammie Curran will be very sad when Zsiga dies, but it hasn’t happened yet, and it won’t for a while.” I squeezed your hand, and you held tightly to mine.
This statement is pretty amazing to me. I don’t really know exactly where it came from, but for some reason you have come to understand that Zsiga’s death is a very real possibility, and that this will be a tremendously sad thing for your Grammie Curran.
And so you cried. You cried tears of sorrow and longing. You cried deeply.
Through the tears, you finally said “I miss Grammie Curran and I miss Zsiga very much.”
So I said “Would you like to ask Grammie Curran to send you a picture of him?”
You nodded, sniffling, and settled down a little bit.
And we drove on a little bit in silence. Finally, you said “Are we on the big hill?”
Glad to have moved on, I exuberantly told you “Yes we are!” and handed you three spiced drops.
And so it was that, two minutes later, you said “The third one I ate tasted like the stuff that goes in the potty!”
And I asked, “Oh, you didn’t like that one?”
To which you responded “Yes, I did, but it tasted like the blue stuff that goes in the potty!”
Astonished, I said “But we don’t ever eat the blue stuff that goes in the potty...”
And you yelled “I know that!”
