Big Questions

It was a crystal clear kind of day today. Cold air. Bright blue sky. It was early, and we had just finished breakfast when Quinn said she wanted to go sledding. We had our first sledding adventure of the year just last night. All three of us in our green plastic sled, legs hanging over the sides. It had snowed all day and the road had just enough cover. We whizzed down the quarter-mile hill in the dark twice before she was ready to go in. This morning she couldn’t wait to get out there again, and while we waited for Sam to get dressed and come out, Quinn and I went to the shed to grab the sled, and we took a run in the backyard. Walking back up among the snow-heavy spruces, sun sparkling off the snow all around, the blue sky above, Quinn asked, “Mom, why do some people die?” 

Before I had an answer fully formed, I heard myself trying to make it seem normal. “Well, everyone dies eventually.” She stopped walking and looked up at me. “Everyone dies?” she asked. I continued to try to make it seem normal, “Yeah, everyone does eventually, but you don’t have to worry about it. You’re not going to die for a really long time.”

Just last night she asked me "Do I have to get married?" I told her not unless she wants to. "I want to marry you," she told me, and of course I promised I would. Less than twenty-four hours later, I promised her she would live for a really long time, knowing that however long it is, it will never be long enough. Sam stepped out on the porch and she ran up to tell him about our new sled run below the woodshed. Her question had been answered and put away.

Quinn’s bedtime routine is a long one. After we each read her a book, or a few chapters from a longer one, she wants “a few minutes of snuggles.” Sometimes either of us will do, but more often than not, she wants snuggles from me. And most nights I’m thrilled to have the job, but when she makes it impossible to leave it can get frustrating. Sam and I try to take turns reading the first book so we can also take turns with the “few minutes of snuggles” that sometimes take half an hour. But lately, when he’s up there for the final phase, she will send him down to ask me if I’ll come up one more time. 

Tonight Sam came downstairs and stood behind me, reading over my shoulder for a moment. I looked at him. “Please don’t tell me you’re here to ask me if I want to go back up because…” He interrupted me, “I am...I am because she is asking why everyone has to die.”

When I returned to her room she reached out for me from her bed. She pulled at my flannel shirt and told me to just wear my tank top. “I want to snuggle you on your bare arms,” she told me. I laid down next to her and she squirmed trying to find the right spot. She wasn’t settled until she laid down fully on my chest, the way she would sleep as a baby. I could hear her voice cracking as she formed the question, “why does everyone have to die?” 

I tried again to make it seem normal. “It’s just part of life,” I told her. “Think of a flower. It is bright and beautiful in the summer, and then it dies before winter. The same is true for the leaves on the trees. And the grass. And the bugs in the grass. The same is true for everything that’s alive.” She lifted her head to look at my face, with still more panic written on hers. “Everything dies?!” She couldn’t believe the news kept getting worse. “Well the good news,” I told her, “is that people live for a really long time…” 

Even as I said it, I wondered when I would have to first explain the death of a young person in her life. For my mom, with me, it was the fourth grade. Carol Hanford, my classmate and neighbor, died from a brain tumor. And I flashed to my mother too, and offered her a silent apology: I’m sorry, Mum, I know forty-six years isn’t “a really long time.” 

Just when I thought I might have made Quinn feel safe, telling her she wouldn't die anytime soon, she jumped up and started to cry. “I don’t like it!” she yelped, “I don’t like it!” She flopped back down on the bed next to me. She curled up her body against my body, laid her head on the bend of my arm, stretched her limbs out next to mine. Today, on this beautiful, sun-filled, early winter day, this day that ended with a full moon lighting up our snowy woods, my four year old learned she would not live forever...and neither would anyone else she loves. 

She was quiet for a moment. "I think we need to put some colored lights on the Christmas tree outside," she told me. "Okay," I said; "I love you." She fell asleep then, hopefully thinking of colored lights, and how much I love her.