Curve Balls From My Children

My children's favorite bed time song from me is a Madrigal I sang in high school. I was shocked that I remembered it when first I sang it to my infant son about 7 years ago. But it has become a standard, and the most requested one. Molly Malone, Home Again Kathleen, A Little Bit of Heaven and all the other Irish songs are nice, but this ineffably sad piece is the one they want most. We've dissected the lyrics, and extracted it's lachrymose meaning. They still love it:

The silver swan, who living had no note,
When death approach'd, unlock'd her silent throat;
Leaning her breast against the reedy shore,
Thus sung her first and last, and sang no more.
Farewell, all joys; O Death, come close mine eyes;
More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise.

---Orlando Gibbons, 1612

It is in keeping with many questions they are asking me lately about dying and death: specifically their own deaths, and my death. I answer then as honestly as I can, telling them what I believe. I struggle to respect my husband's beliefs as well, while trying not to frighten or insult them. I tell then I don't know for certain, but that I believe we will all be together again in His divine presence, in the arms of Our Lord.

I know their questions are similar to my own questions at their age. But my parents presented to me a united front -- an unshakeable belief and a solid answer. Consequently, I cannot recall fearing death as a child. Even now, the only death I truly fear is, ironically, that of my children.

Last week they stayed overnight with my mother. She is not the Warm, Cuddly grandma. She is more like a 90-lb version of John Wayne and George S Patton, dressed in immaculate Levis and a snow-white T shirt. But she brings a lot of history and opinion to the table. I know how they spent their sleepover: She probably showed them paintings of Civil War generals and old photographs of her father as a Southern California business pioneer in WWII.

I also know she showed them photographs of my father, who died when I was 17. We have pictures of him here...many pictures. But she showed them pictures of him as a child, as a young man, with his infant children. They ask about him constantly. Probably because we still talk and laugh about him constantly, as if he just left the room, as if he left just last week. Something else telling: They remark how I look exactly like my high school and college photos, except for all the lines on my face. They ask if the lines mean I will die soon.

I am laughing as I write this, yet I am a little sad for them, that they are already so anxious about this. Here's hoping it is a phase, because I have been able to field all the curve balls they have thrown me so far, but I am almost afraid to swing the bat on these.