Yesterday as I was blissfully sipping a cup of hot tea and browsing images of lovely gardens on Pinterest, Sully ran up to me and broke the silence with his sugary voice. I expected something completely silly, including the words toot, fart, butt-crack, poop. But instead what I heard was, "Mom, will I die?"
"Yes."
My mouth opened and the word just lurched out. As I heard myself say it I wondered where my heart went. What followed was a conversation no longer than five minutes or so. In that time I chose my words very carefully and simply. Sadly, I found myself well versed due to the handful of articles I've read recently relating to Sandy Hook on how to talk to young children about death. I explained in ways that you can only explain to a three year old that most people live a very long life. I reassured him as best as I could that he would too.
In hindsight, I'm okay with my quick, one-word answer to such a scary question. I'm also grateful that we had a few extra minutes to continue an open, honest conversation cotton swabbed with compassion salve. If given the option, I'll take toot and poop talk any day.
As Sully ran off, fully and happily on to the next thing, my heart and mind lingered. That sugary voice, caramelized.
