Death, War, and Cemetaries, Part 1

When I was 8 years old, my Grandmother died of cancer. I knew that she was dying, as I had been flown down in haste to be able to say goodbye, and I did grasp what was going on. Shortly after, there was a funeral, and I cried along with the rest of the family. We visited her grave a few years later, and I understood that Grandma was behind the stone in the Mausoleum, unmoving. This was my first experience with Death, as well as a cemetary.
When I was about 10, our country joined the Gulf War, and I watchedsome footage on the news, we talked about it in class, and my father explained his being a Veteran of the Vietnam Conflict. My little brain pondered all of the meanings of these realities, much more clarity was brought to previous grade school studies of wars, and I grasped the difficulties and gravities that war brings to a world. This was my first experience with War.
Unfortunately, my son has had a rather odd indoctrination into all three of these, and does not have the cognitive abilities to understand any of them. Perhaps I am thankful that he still retains these innocences.
When we first took Chunk to the vet, I explained that our feline was sick. Just like when Anthony had croup and went to see a doctor, Chunk was going to see a Kitty Doctor. The next day, the day we had to put Chunk down, I was crying uncontrollably. Anthony asked why mommy was crying.
"Mommy is crying because Chunk is sick. I love Chunky, and I don't want to see him sick and hurt. Sometimes when people we love very much are hurting, we hurt, too."
This was the best answer I could come up with.
My dad came with us, and quietly ushered kiddo away so that I could say goodbye. In the car, Anthony asked why we didn't take Chunk back from the vet.
"Chunk is still sick. Chunk is so sick that he's going to have to go away, and we won't be able to see him again"
"Is that why you said Goodbye? Because he's going away?"
"Yes. But he won't come back with us again, and that makes Mommy sad"
"But maybe when he's better, he can come back"
"Sometimes people, or kitties, don't get better, dear. And they just stay...gone"
"Oh. He'll stay with vet then"
So, basically my son thinks that Chunk has taken up residence at the vet clinic. I don't quite think permanent absence is a concept he can really wrap his head around. I think he has a bit of an idea of actual permanence, because he knows that Mommy and Daddy won't live together again. This sad truth he accepted head on at a very early age. It' amazing when you see how such a heavy concept can seem simple in the eyes of the very young. But to him it's a simple fact of his life, and has never been the worse for it.
But, when you think about it, this is a rather easy permanence to explain.
We lived together when you were born. Now we don't. You still see both of us, are loved by both of us, and your life goes on, just on a different path than it originated. Through the eyes of a child, this is a relatively simple concept, especially since it's a common truth for many families.
But permanently gone...well, that one's different. There is no alternate route there, that pathway just...stopped. To a child, all paths go forward, in front of him, indefinitely. There can't be an end when we're still at the beginning. To him, I'm not older, or further along my path. I'm just a much taller version of him, and it's only my height that lends me the ability to use knives or the stove. To him, I must be at the beginning of my path, too, because that's where he is, and I'm standing right beside him. Mommy was always Mommy, and will always be Mommy. He knows I have birthdays, and assumes that with having them, I will get bigger, too. In his mind, I should be the same size as Scott aaaaaaaaaaaaany day now...
I wish I could bottle that innocence. Only seeing many paths that go on forever, each one as rich as the next, and none have an end to halt me. It's a bittersweet momment seeing that innocence stare back at you. I thought of Bob, and how nice it would be to think of him eventually coming around, that giving up was a temporary problem. I thought of Josh, who could just be on the mend at some desert hospital tent, and there would still be a bear hug in the future. And of Victor. Quietly sitting in a hospital bed, he'd soon return to the apartment in Belltown, and we'd all go sit around the dingy little apartment that would always be there. And he'd get tired of the "Swiss Army Prosthetic" jokes, so he'd just regrow it and move on. Like all of the toys before that get mended (or secretly re-purchased).
Because in the eyes of a child, things don't go away forever. They can change, shift, switch directions. But there's no such thing as gone.