Today we had our first actual conversation about death. I had the bright idea to flip through my favorite photo album--the one collecting pictures of me when I was a kid, accumulated across multiple family members. My intent was to show you, again, how much you look like me. But as we flipped past pages of my grandparents my eyes welled up with tears and I told you about them with love. You asked where they were now. I had to explain that they had died.
I recognized the quiver in your lip when I said that. It's the same as mine. Suddenly I knew we were in dangerous conversational territory but I didn't know how to get out of it without lying to you.
Why they die? You asked.
Well, honey. I tried to explain as gently as I could. They got old and they died. But they had a good long life and they were wonderful people. That's how it's supposed to be.
You were not distracted for an instant by this.
Everybody dies? you pressed.
And here we are.
Yes, honey. Everybody dies someday.
Your tears were freely flowing down your cheeks now. Oh, God. She is realizing her mortality. I remember this. How horrifying it was. I was about her age. In fact, I was exactly her age. I wanted to be buried alive with my mom so she would never leave me. (Dear God. Don't think like me!) But I don't believe in anything. And I don't know how to help her through it except by being honest and gentle and reassuring.
I die, too? you asked.
Not until you're a little old lady! You don't have to worry, honey. You will live a long and wonderful life. You will live for a long, long time. Mommy will make sure of it.
You said that you would miss your family when you died. That you would miss your friends. Oh, my dear heart. I have never loved you more. You're a sensitive little soul and I want so desperately to protect you.
Where Ohio? You asked after thinking a moment. I thought I hadn't heard you right. I asked you to repeat. You asked again, Where Ohio?
Ohio. I repeated. Ohio. What do you mean? It's a state like West Virginia is a state.
Mamaw said her mommy and daddy died and went to Ohio.
Heaven, baby. I corrected trying desperately to stifle a giggle. I love you! I cried. And then I explained how some people believe in heaven.
Most of the time I don't blame them. I'd like to be able to believe in heaven, too. It sounds much more comfortable than not believing in it.
Where is heaven? Is heaven a building? Is heaven like a town? Can we go there? Is it far away? Can we see it in the sky? Can I fly an airplane to heaven? Is it farther than California? These are questions you would ask in the next couple of days. And of course you should ask them. I asked them, too. But I still don't have the answers and conveying uncertainty to a four-year-old is nearly impossible.
