Holy shit. Tonight I handled all these questions solo while my husband was at a Dodger's game. I held my sweet son and kissed his sweaty head and tried to come up with explanations or theories or at least a good yarn. After a while I realized that pretty much every other sentence began with "well, some people believe..." I started to think about what I believe.
I believe in the soul. I believe that the when we lose people, they are still with us in some way that is bigger than memory. I believe that my Dad looks in on me from time to time. While I don't really know about a heaven full of angels, I do like to think of all the people I have lost together somewhere, strangers at first, but slowly discovering each in the other some common thread. I like to think that in this place my Dad finally had a beer with John Wayne and Roy Rogers and Jimmy Stewart.
I tried to explain death to Theo, but I couldn't say it won't happen. We have a long, long time together, I said. He wondered if his pediatrician could invent a medicine that would stop him from aging. He'd like to stay six forever. I promised him that seven would be just as good --that there would wonderful things in every year and then I curled up around him and let him fall asleep in my arms because in the end, my love is the only thing I know for sure.