D-e-a-t-h

Yes, we've taken to spelling things out for Finn.

"Hey Barry, how about a m-o-v-i-e?"

"I think I'm feeling like a little p-i-z-z-a. You?"

"The c-h-i-l-d is throwing a holy f-i-t. Shall I t-h-r-o-w him down the laundry c-h-u-t-e?"

Of course, because we're new to this, every spellout requires a couple of beats (okay, minutes) for our brains, ironically well educated, to compose letters into words we think we recognize, sometimes to interesting miscalculations. But that, my reader, is a blog for another time.

The high-scoring spellout for this past week has been d-e-a-t-h. I'm not sure what specific occasion sparked this word in this particular week. Last summer, we had to put our cat to sleep. We kept Finn out of it. While Barry talked to the vet, I distracted Finn with a walk across the street to the pet store. That led, in a subsequent visit to our fish, who died last winter. Finn, then a few months older and we thought more mature to handle the life cycle, was brought in for the "funeral." He didn't seem upset, didn't question.

But for some reason, this week, Finn's been questioning the life here and after.

It started in the library with a book called Josefina, based on the real-life clay sculpting of Josefina Aguilar. It's supposed to be a counting book. You know, Josefina molds three clay houses, six babies and the six mamas that hold them. When we get to eight, Josefina creates eight calaveras (skeletons). Finn asked about the skeletons, what they were, who they were, why there were, where they were. And then, will I die? will you die? I don't want to die.

And so, we initiated the d-e-a-t-h spelling policy, unless directly confronted.

So tonight, Finn started asking about my grandparents, and, according to previous agreement, I took him on. Where are they? Where did they die? How did they die? Where are they now?

Where's heaven?

Is it by the pet store?