She smiled when she asked, her
7-year-old self so serious, so sincere,
and like all grownups confronted with
hard questions we haven’t answered
for ourselves, I said, “It just stops.”
And she said, “No more lub-dub?”
because she had heard hers
lub-dubbing away through a
stethoscope at the doctor’s office.
“No,” I said, “no more lub-dub.”
And I gave her a smile to match
hers. “Okay,” she said, and turned
to head for the swings. Halfway
there, she turned and looked back,
gestured for me to come with.
When I got close enough, she asked.
“What happens to my heart
when you die?”
She took my hand as I felt
the engine of my being miss
both a lub and a dub. “It gets
very sad,” I managed.
“But I’ll already be in your heart,
so you’ll carry me with you.”
She nodded. “Wherever I go?”
“Wherever you go,” I said.
“Okay,” she said, dropping my hand
and skipping toward the swings,
taking her seat and, pumping
her little heart out,
having no idea how deeply
embedded she is in mine.
Güd wrtr 
awwww. I love this.
Thank you, Amrita!
Hi, Jan: Your beautiful story has been such a comfort to me. My eldest son, Jason, who crawled on the floor of your Davis home 45 years ago when he was but an infant, lies in hospice in Iowa, now comatose from hepatorenal failure. He has only hours remaining, and because I have cancer and am on oral chemo, I am too ill to be at his side. It is the most terrible grief I have ever known. Thank you for all the amazing moments you share in your posts. Terry StoneGoldendale, WA
what a powerful and touching poem
Thank you, Linda!
Oh, Terry… I’m so sorry to hear this about Jason and about your cancer, too. I can only imagine how terrible your grief must be. I’m holding both of you close in my heart and sending much love and light to you.
Jan