Death

C_. died Monday. He had lived in the trailer park longer than anyone else, having moved here right after it opened in 1947. He was a kind old man who lived into his nineties and raised begonias in the little space he called his back yard. I told the older boy about it last night. He had grown kind of fond of C_. and enjoyed giving him hugs when he saw him. He didn't say much at first, then after a bit, asked if he had died because he was so old. Later on when we were reading books he told me he didn't really like it when people say someone died. I didn't take it personally in fact in a way I agreed with him.

One of the stories we read used the phrase that someone "croaked" and after a slight pause the boy asked if C_. had croaked. I think I told him that you can use that word, but it seems a little crass to use slang to describe death, or something like that. I think the boy and I silently agreed that no death of a kind old man deserved that.

It took awhile for the boy to fall asleep, asking Sweetie to lay beside him to help keep the scary thoughts out of his head until he finally drifted off.