On Death and Graveyards

“Mom, is it true that every 3.6 seconds, some one is dying of hunger?”

“It might be. Who told you?”

“Grade 5 students put up a poster in school. I saw that.”

“Hmm. You know, right before bed is a good time to say a little prayer of thanks for the good life you have, happy family, home, food, school.”

“But how much is 3.6 seconds?”

“Like counting to 4.”

“1…2…3…4 oh, someone just died.”

I am rolling my eyes at this point. The lights are off. She is in bed. And I am sitting in the room, reading a collection of memoirists talking about the art of writing personal narrative. I am also wondering how she has such an equanimous stance on death. Perhaps it is the youthful ignorance of never having experienced it close enough. Like insecurity, grief and foreboding are acquired emotions, we are possibly not born with it.

“I would like to visit a graveyard”, she says.

“I would like to take you. We will go on Sunday?”

“Yes, but in the morning. Nights can be spooky.”