Some of the best little talks have been on the way to, or coming back from the golf course. They afford me insights to the five-year-old mind that are achingly beautiful in their innocence. On this particular day, the Boy is talking to me about Terry Fox, because his school has had a Terry Fox run. He tells me he did twenty and further discussion reveals that this means he did twenty times around the school or the gym ... I'm still not clear on this part.
And then I get blindsided.
Boy: Terry Fox is in the ground, isn't he.
Me (after pause to reflect and gather myself): Yes, sweetheart. That's why people do this run. So folks can get money and make medicine for people who are sick like Terry Fox was and they can stay alive.
The conversation continues around this subject for a while, me wondering through the whole thing what's appropriate for a 5-year-old Boy, all this talk about death and mortality. But he's genuinely interested and his questioning is earnest and not frivolous, so I try to be straight-forward about it all, answering what he asks without volunteering more, for now staying away from the "We're all going to die" angle.
We talk about more stuff, then for a while we're quiet. The question from the back seat five or ten minutes later, a signal of the impending breakdown of innocence, a signal that he hasn't yet grasped the finality of death. I draw a blank for the moment it takes me to realize that he's still thinking about Terry Fox, then my heart breaks a little bit for Terry and also for my Boy.
Boy: So they're not working on him anymore?
Reluctantly I answer.
Me: No sweetheart. They're not working on him anymore.
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