Here on Earth

For close to a decade I’ve avoided watching anything - for entertainment - that I deemed too upsetting.

Anything excessively violent. Or cruel. Or sad.

When Dan would suggest The Wire, I’d counter with Peggy Sue Got Married, and we’d eventually settle on a couple of hours apart.

This type of self-regulation coincided with becoming a mother, when everything felt so raw and I had trouble “metabolizing” the darker subject matter.

I didn’t anticipate - years later - this type of protection dissolving when my own kids would come to me with their creepy nightmares and existential fears — with no regard to trigger warnings!

And instantly I have to be brave and calm and honest and - on the spot - find words to ease their fears, which are also my fears, and also all of our fears.

My five-year-old son is suddenly aware of death, which is age appropriate, but also heightened by what he’s absorbing around him during this pandemic.

A few nights ago he took my face in both of his hands, at bedtime, his chin quivering and tears rolling down his cheeks - bereft that after I die I won’t be with him — here on earth — for “so much time.”

I tried to console him with ways that I feel connected to my grandmother and aunt, and the belief that our souls will be reunited someday. It didn’t take.

So I told him that I’m also sad about this.

And that none of us know what happens after death, and that I can’t ask anyone because the only people who I know are living (which is a loose paraphrase of a Franz Wright poem).

Our consolation — here on earth — is running on the deserted beach — sand sticking to our wet clothing after we went straight into the water fully-dressed, because it felt so good to be outside.

And let’s do that again. And again. For as many days as we can.

He seemed to accept that.

Then I told Dan I was ready to watch The Wire.

We’re two episodes in, and it’s spectacular.