At bedtime tonight, my 5 year old son and I pretended we were celebrating our birthday and blowing out candles. We both made wishes (and were accustomed to keeping them to ourselves). “What did you wish for babe?” I asked my son. “I won’t tell you because you didn’t tell me,” he said. “Oh I’ll tell you Bear….I will break the rule this one time,” I said. “I wished for you to have he happiest life ever…that you get everything you ever dream of.” He smiled quietly. “”What did you wish for sweetie?” I asked my son. “I wished that you’ll never die.”
I took a second to absorb that, because death was something we talked openly about. Especially since I lost my mum when I was young. I was 14 and she was 44. I’ve spoken of her as openly to him as any of his living grandparents. How she died, how I believe she lives now. And he speaks of her often…when he sees rainbows, when he talks about “all of his grandparents.”
“I’m never going to die, Finny,” I said to him. “Yes you will, Mumma,” he calmly said. I realized he knew what I meant, but I also knew what he meant. “Well, I will die in a certain way here, but you know I will still be here…with you…you understand that, right?” …..”Yep, I know, Mumma.”
On one of the many days (in 25 years) that I’ve wished my mum was here…to hold my son and laugh, to hold my face in her hands as she pulled away from a long hug, to celebrate the birthday of the man I’ve loved for 20 years, who she would have been such buds with…on this one of countless days. My son. His words. Move me. To tears. He’s wise, and kind, and he gets it. I love that about him.
I’m holding you, as I’m holding him ❤️