Emmy follows me around the kitchen. “Mommy, where is my Santa Claus?”
“Your what?” It’s March. Why is she looking for Santa Claus?
“Mommy, I want my Santa Claus!” Emmy insisted. I racked my brain to figure out what she was talking about. It finally dawned on me that over the weekend, Ed had bought Emmy her own dental floss.
Lily, in her wise old age of five, will answer Emmy with an answer she’s heard me give: “Grandma’s all better now because she’s in heaven.”
“Mommy, don’t die.” Emmy says as I look at her.
“Mommy, how old will you be when you die?” follows up Lily in this unsettling conversation I am having with my children.
“One hundred!” I exclaim.
“Because I would miss you too much to die.”
Lily reprimands me, saying, “Heaven is magical, Mommy. People don’t miss each other when they are in heaven.”
Heaven has no time, my mother once told me. She believed that once you got to Heaven, you wouldn’t feel like you were waiting for your loved ones to join you.
How did Lily know?