death and taxes


i can't remember how i old i was when i became aware that death was, you know, a thing. that happened. like, to everybody. like, whether we liked it or not.

i can't remember how old i was when i became aware that death was a thing, but i know for a fact that it wasn't when i was eight years-old. in the past six months, hannah has been dealt developmentally inappropriate emotional blows as she has now lost both of great grandfathers on her mommy's side.

now, whether this means she is worried about it happening to her or not, it scares me for her. she's an anxious, anxious, little girl anyway. if you are a follower of this blog or have been in the last couple of years, you know that she gets her anxiety quite honestly. not just from her daddy that worries constantly about everything, but her mommy is pretty good at worrying, too. she's just better at not crying at the end of wall-e and letting everyone in the house, children included, that in that moment at the end of wall-e she's he's scared of dying.

hannah worries and worries and worries about everything. the henson's house was broken into last year. now she worries about our house being broken into constantly.

"why didn't you lock the door, daddy."

"do robbers come at night?"

"do robbers come when you're at home?"

"do robbers come when you're in your car?"

she worries about being blown away in tornadoes. part of our nightly routine, every night, includes her asking me, "is it supposed to storm tonight?"

we constantly see her staring into space contemplating what we can only assume is the meaning of the universe. she'll snap out of the zone and ask a pointed question.

"do you believe in hell, daddy?"

no, baby, i don't.

"do you believe in seton?"

who's seton, baby?

"seton, you know."

do you mean satan?

"yeah, satan."

now, whether the god/heaven/hell questions have anything to do with her great grandfathers, i don't really know.

what i do know is her asking about heaven and hell freaks me out. the only thing existential i gave any thought to in second grade, from what i remember, was how my existence would be a whole lot less fun if i didn't play with my g.i. joe's some more.

in third grade, i memorized the books of the bible.

in fourth grade, shit, i don't remember anything from the fourth grade. can anyone tell me who my fourth grade teacher was at going? there is a reward in it for you if you can.

in fifth grade, i thought about girls. a fucking lot. girls and dodgeball. and football. and baseball. and more girls. and that girl i kissed behind the dumpster at our apartments. and g.i. joes. and nerf basketball.

not death.

we were at chili's last night talking about the arrangements for sarah's grandfather. hannah was working on her coloring page, and i think sarah and i, both, were operating under the delusion that hannah wasn't paying attention to us. of course, she was.

"did granddaddy die."

fuck.

i pulled her close to me and told her that we were waiting for a good time to tell her. she laid her head on the table and got sad, her little brain processing the news at the same time she was being annoyed at us that we had been holding something from her.

i made sure to tell her that she could ask us anything that she wanted. the worst thing she could do, i told her, was hold it all in.

for the next fifteen or twenty minutes, we talked about the events that led to lamar's passing. she took it all in.  she didn't get terribly upset. after we told her that she could certainly attend the viewing and funeral if she wanted to, we changed the subject.

she and sarah are in georgia tonight. sarah told me that she didn't avoid the presented body. what goes through and eight year-old's mind when she sees an empty vehicle that was very much alive just three short weeks ago and now lays frozen in time forever in front of her.

god only knows.

there is a part of me that hopes this is a memory that doesn't stick in her craw. something that five or ten years from now she recalls as clearly as i do fourth grade.

being aware that death is, you know, a thing doesn't seem fair for her to worry about.

not yet.

if this is added to her list of nightmares, i beg that i am more patient with this one than i am with the robbers or the storms or the things that go bump in the night ones. with those, i am now impatient. i forcefully implore her to recognize how ridiculous the notion of me not taking care of her truly is, and i tell her to go back to sleep...or else. this method is every bit as effective, of course, as it is someone telling me that "everything is going to be alright." when i am violently shaking in fear in the floor of my bathroom in the middle of one of my deathdreams.

what will i do if and when she wakes me up in the middle of the night and her question has nothing to do with the weather but is something along the lines of, "am i going to die, daddy?"

i have no clue. maybe i'll just offer her some ice cream at 2 a.m. and hope it induces nightmares i feel more qualified to speak on.

jesus.

you're a brave girl, hannah. i love you.