Questions.

The conversation with the little boy I'm babysitting suddenly takes a turn for the serious side. He looks up at me from his bed, where he's tucked into pirate-themed blankets and pirate-pajamas, fake pirate swords at his side.

"The only way to die is by getting stabbed in your neck, right? Like a pirate?"
"Yeah...that's one way. But there are many, many other ways you can die, too."
"Like how?"
"Well, sometimes, if you hit your head really, really hard, your brain gets so hurt that you die."
"Oh. Did that ever happen to you?"
"Well...no. But it happened to my really close friend, my best friend. He was in a car accident and hit his head really, really hard."
His eyes widen and he frowns with confusion.
"...What was his name?"
"His name was Micah."
"Oh."
"They took him to the hospital, but he died."
"But...was he okay?"

How do you explain death to a young child, when you yourself can't even comprehend it? I so badly wanted to tell him, "Oh yes...Micah's ok now." But instead I had to tell him that no, death means your body does not work, so it shuts down as if you're very sleepy, and that's what happened to Micah. My answer must have consoled him, because he soon went back to his innocent state of childhood, where pirates are the worst thing that can happen to someone.

Although children grieve, they grieve differently. It would be impossible and exhausting for them to grieve intensely for days on end, so instead they mix grief with play, so that it translates into their world. Grieve a little, play a little, alternating back and forth. From afar it may look like they're normal, but deep down they're processing things just as much as adults are.

As the one year anniversary is a month behind, and time continues to march on, I wonder if grieving like a child is a paradigm I can move into. I will always grieve Micah's death, but I'm ready now for some play, too. I'm ready to alternate back and forth, not just stay on one or the other.