A few years ago, while I was vainly trying to learn a child`s board game, 8-year-old Thomas looked up at me, solemn and concerned, and asked,
”Lorraine, what happens when you die?”
This stopped me cold. The game was difficult, but this challenge was suddenly more demanding. I tried to gloss over his question. After all, he wasn`t my child. He was the son of my new landlord.
But he pushed the game aside and again asked: ”What happens to me? Am I nothing? Why?”
I groped for an answer at first, but then I knew what to say: ”Thomas, it`s like a letter in the mail. The envelope is important for a while. It gets the letter where it`s supposed to go. But we both know the really important part is the letter inside.”
He smiled, and I went on: ”The envelope is our body. The letter is our spirit. The spirit is the part of us that thinks and learns and loves and is remembered. It never dies.”
Relaxing, he grinned. Then, leaning over the board game, he teased,
”You`re never going to learn this game if you don`t pay attention, Lorraine.”
My mother died recently, after a long illness. Thomas always called her
”The Grandma.” At the funeral, a tall young man came up to me with a shy kiss and a small smile. I doubt he remembers our talk when he was 8.
