Forever

 

“Where are we going?”

A direct question that should have an easy answer, but nothing’s been easy lately.

“Grandpa’s.” A glance in the rear-view mirror at her wrinkly brow makes me explain. She has two Grandpas. “Mom Mom’s Grandpa. We’re going to Mom Mom and Grandpa’s house.”

Silence. I may be off the hook. She is only three.

“Ellie and Evie and I know Mom Mom died.”

Deep breath. Breathe again. The anger and hurt – the grief – wells up suddenly and I ease it back down the way I survived childbirth. Only deep breaths and let them out one at a time.

“Do you remember Mom Mom?”

“Yes.” I wonder if she does. She’s only three and saw her so seldom. Mom called her Baby when she forgot her name. “She brought me candy.” Yes.

She is only three. How long will that memory hold? The tears are running free now, but she needs me to talk. Passing my mother’s house, I ask if she knows what it means to be dead.

“Can she open her eyes?” I picture them as I saw them that day.

“No.”

“Well then what does she do all day?”

I want to say she sings and she dances. I want to say she’s with the angels. I want to be reassuring and motherly and all that comes out are tears and shallow, gasping breaths.

“She loves you.”

“All day?”

“Forever.”

Is that enough?

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