Would You Rather.

This Thanksgiving, I played a game with my son. One of us poses two scenarios, and the other answers which they would rather do.  Would you rather live in the ocean or outer space?  Would you rather be famous or smart?  Would you rather only hop on one foot, or only taste blueberries? 

This time he surprised me.   "Mom, would you rather live forever or die tomorrow?"

I laughed, immediately certain of my answer.  If my only other option is to die tomorrow, I would rather live forever, I told him.  He scoffed.

"But then, everyone you love would die.  And you would see the sun explode.  And you would still be here." 

I found myself ruminating for days.   I asked friends and family for their take, and when some offered concerned stares I assured them that this is normal conversation for us, because it is. Because in our house, death is charted waters.  Because when you're four years old and your sister dies, these are the things you contemplate.

Twelve days later, my sister died. 

I received the call at five am.  It was that half awake/half asleep haze, when sounds reach your ears before your head can weigh in, and your heart begins to race without your consent. 

"Okay," I think I said.  But it wasn't. 

My sister was 39 years old.  She died suddenly, two weeks before Christmas and two weeks before her 40th birthday (the day after Christmas).  She died without warning, before saying goodbye or writing a will or finishing the milk in the fridge.  She died abruptly, unexpectedly, hours after texting me about an Amazon bathrobe. 

That morning and the hours and days that follow remain a blur.   I think about the last things said, the things forever unsaid.  I think about what might have been, what wasn't, what will certainly be.  Harder.  Unfair.  Worse. 

And I think about my answer to my son.

Later, after the presents were blindly bought and wrapped and opened, in haste and gratitude and contempt, I pulled him aside. Could I revise? 

"I mean yeah," he shrugged, as nine-year-olds often do. 

I don't want to see the sun explode, I told him.   I don't want to be around when you're not.  I don't want to receive that call again, of this I am certain.  He nodded. 

But even as my heart breaks in two, remains broken and bleeding and beating in two, for the rest of my life but especially for now, I assured him: I don't want to die tomorrow. 

 "That's good, Mom," he said as he hugged me; covered me in sweaty boy smell. 

And so, it is.