Hey Kiddo,
I keep walking around distracted-like, back and forth pretty quickly across the apartment, mostly because I don't know what to have for dinner, which is a crock, because I really just keep forgetting that I'm having spaghetti. Ha, pssghetti. Hey, kiddo. And also because my head is full of thoughts. And do you remember the time that you and Dad and Asim were playing marbles in the living room and Dad broke Mum's vase with an over enthused chip of Asim's big green glass crock that reminds me still of old seven-up bottles from back in the times of seven-up being your absolute fave?
Everything was OK though. You're out! You're safe! You're out! You're safe! You're Safe! SAFE! Dad knew one hundred cents how to fix it and you were dollars, all three of you, and Asim felt bad so he told Mum, and she didn't even scream or get mad or mind even a little. Only pretend-like, tease-y with Dad, which made it even more fun.
So there you go, kid. One really truly happy memory, from me to you. Hallelujah!
But the point of the letter, little one, was not to tell that story. That's a bonus. Super-boni! Gratuit! No, the point is to ask you a question.
Do you remember the day you knew you would one day die? I remember lots of little thoughts you had, but I don't remember when you figured out life's big secret. I remember that you were a little bit afraid of sleep, because you figured out that sleep was just about the same as death, minus the wake-up-figure-out-set-yourself-straight part every morning. But that was not so bad, you thought, because you were okay with sleep being a little scary and death being not so scary. You figured there were worse things than death. Like stewing beef. And horror.
I remember you asking Mum when she would die. She took it as kind of funny, but also a great affront. You didn't think it was so bad, on account of death being a part of everything, and really the only given in life. Also, a big part of the question was trying to get at the heart of whether or not you would definitely definitely die, and, if so, when, or could Mum maybe ask God how?
We were standing at the kitchen sink! You learned a lot at the kitchen sink. Like your brother is your best friend. Like burning things with god in them. Like not asking questions of people who are afraid of the answers and maybe a little afraid that you know more than them. And not to ever ever swear.
Ha. I swear like a sailor.
Don't take oaths, and never say never, little kiddo.
Tahir Mamu and Amirah Baji weren't that important, in the long run, in teaching you about death. It taught you lots of other things, but you already knew the facts of death. It taught you about taking things in stages. And about separation, and separation anxiety. And grieving. And that grown-up people don't often know what to say, and will frequently say the wrong thing, like "Take care of your mummy." when you are 8 years old and thinking "Woah. I am just a kid. Who will take care of me?"
I hope that when I have kids I wake up every morning to find them in a different place in our house. And that the sun shines through my curtains warmth-inducing-like, every single morning.
Talk to you soon,
Roo.
