Last week, someone I once knew died.

When I was growing up, I thought death was optional. I really did. Didn't you? We were little and grown-ups were big and the pillows were soft and night lights were magical. And we didn't know then that everyone dies. We thought that only happened to goldfish and far-off grandparents, maybe.

My son was was just a year old when my grandmother, who was also my dear friend, died. My husband was separated from me and I didn't have the money to get to her as she lay dying or afterward, to get to her funeral. I spent the day they laid her to rest holding him, tucked beneath my tears.

Each year since, there have been these phone calls. These horrible, horrible phone calls. A cascade and sometimes trickle, but never-ending.

I hate the phone calls I get.

"What are you doing, Mommy?"

"Someone I once knew, died. I am writing cards to his family."

"Oh," he leans against me, his narrow shoulder digging into my arm. He pats my cheek softly. "It's sad, Mommy?"

It is, and I am. I nod.

"I wish no one had to die," he says quietly. "At least for a while."

I agree, and wish I could make night lights magical for him again. And, to be honest, for me.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 02:31 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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