I Think He's Deepak Chopra

On a long ride home a while ago, before I learned my friend's child had died, the GFYO said, apropos of nothing, "My baby years went by so fast."

Days later, when I was sitting in the sun on the porch, trying to absorb the horror that happened on a Small Town street a few blocks away, trying to figure out how they would go on without her, while all three of my kids lazed around me, safe and my god, perfect, the GFYO asked me how it is that he can lay down on a planet that is floating in space. Before I could answer, he said, "There is something that holds us here."  

More days passed and we waved goodbye to summer with a long day riding roller coasters and log flumes. In the car on the way home, the GFYO said, again apropos of nothing, "What happens when we die?"

I don't know, I said, too tired to be freaked out. No one knows really.

The GFYO looked out the window, a five year old boy secure in our speeding bullet, a five year old boy who doesn't know about tragedy or accidents or any of the ways that grief creeps in, a five year old boy with an ice cream cone all over his face. He thought for a second, maybe more, and said,  "I think when you die you just start over."

I hope so, I said.

Today on the couch, curled into me for the five minutes I seem to get these days, he said, Knock Knock. 

Who's there, I said. 

Me, he said. 

Me who, I said.

"Me who loves you."