Tonight, as we do for many “family home evenings,” we called Matt’s Mom in Utah so she could join in.
We had a lovely time.
And then my daughter asked, “Mommy, where’s your Mom?”
“My Mom died.” I still can’t politely say she passed away-
She didn’t, after all.
“Oh. Where did she die?”
“In a city kind of far away, called Dallas.”
“And did she die in a bed?” Oh I hope so. The truth is I don’t know. It isn’t a question I ever determined worth the asking.
Nut I just answered, “I don’t know, Sam. I think so.”
“Hmmm…so you weren’t there? Did someone else tell you she died?”
Jeremy, Tim (her friend), the Sheriff…
“No, honey. I wasn’t there. Someone else told me.”
I hate that Sheriff.
Mercifully, the questions ended, and Matt took my hand.
I wiped a few silent tears, and thought of the legacy of suicide…
Then I took a deep breath, and nodded- acknowledging my gratitude for the question Sam didn’t ask.