feeling lucky

"Hey, how many dead people have you seen?"  

he asks and quickens his pace to catch my hand in his as we walked toward the bus stop.  

We are in the middle of our homemade summer camp {just the two of us} and had, only moments before, polished off a discussion on the coping function of alcohol.

"Not like ghosts or anything but real people?  I mean, what is that like - to watch someone die?"

My step falters ever so slightly as I embrace his inquiry and receive his hand.  

It doesn't take me long to recall how I felt as I stood beside a family just days before as they entwined hands across their loved one's chest to confirm the last breath.  Even now, as I write, I am merely hours removed from such an experience. 

My brow perspires as I struggle with how to quantify my experiences. 

I am holding my breath and misunderstanding his question. 

He shifts his hand in mine and I exhale, finding relief in acknowledging the heart of his question is actually about the experience itself - of being in the presence of death.

This {I think to myself} this is why I love my time with you so much.  

In the middle of a bustling city, after we have spent part of our day trying to see who can burp the longest, you ask me about the soft underbellies of life.  You grab my hand and ask questions that catch me off guard.  

I love that you have to clarify that you are not asking me about ghosts.  

I love how you can appear aloof and distracted and sassy and then initiate sharp, poignant conversations that demonstrate how adept you are at taking in and processing what happens around you. 

I know I have said this a million times and it is your job to poke holes in my sincerity but that doesn't take away from the reality that I spend so many moments in a day watching you, admiring you, and thinking:  

I love you and I feel so lucky to be your mom.