My second son had just been born. Jamie's older brother, Alex, was three and a half. We got him a little kitten so we'd each have a baby to take care of. Sadly, the kitten (whom we called Lady Grey) choked on a pill; Alex and his dad took her to the vet where she died. We of course immediately got Alex another kitten -- very pretty, but kind of sassy. 
Alex named her Pickle, "because," he said, "she's a dilly." The next evening Alex came to me and asked, "what happened to Lady Grey?" I recapped the incident, but he interrupted me. "No. I know all that. I mean herself." I began to carefully explain what the vet would do with her little body, but Alex interrupted again. "No, I don't mean her body. I mean her smile." That was the moment I understood that children have an intrinsic concept of soul.
I've thought of this occasionally over the years, always wondering at the genius of it. Then, yesterday, my six year old granddaughter capped that story with a dialogue of her own. We were driving to her T-Ball game passed the cemetery. Keira, in the back seat, remarks, "Gramma. How do they get in there? Do they go there and lay down?" "No, sweetheart, they don't walk in and lay down. Because they're not alive when they're there. Their smiles, thoughts, talking, smiling (thanks Alex) aren't there any longer. Only the body is left." "So," she continued, "where does all that go? The part that isn't there any more?" think quick, Mickey; how do you put this so she'll get it? "Well, that part, the living part, goes to God; sometimes people call that place the center of the universe." "Okay. But does the rest have to go in a box?" "No. Some people want their bodies to be burned and their ashes scattered someplace beautiful like out in the ocean or in a field; or saved in a special place." All of this conversation was very casual; very normal. Keira had the final word. "Well, I don't want to be put in a box. I'd rather be burned up and thrown in the wind."
I was deprived of this conversation when I was growing up. Death was hush-hush. People I cared about might be dead for years before my mother reported the event to me. It was an abnormal event. As though people weren't meant to die. As though it wasn't a part of life. I'd much preferred the knowing. It becomes less frightening. Of course, violent death - as seen in movies and on television or in the newspapers - is mainly the image children have. The unnatural event. And, I suppose, if one doesn't believe in God or the Spiritual Universe, one might be hard pressed to described where the smile goes. I don't have that answer right now.
It's Mothers' Day, so it's appropriate to think about ones family. I'm fortunate to have many delightful memories with which to celebrate the day. I hope you have, too.
Blessed be.
