Sunday, April 26, 2015
A garden; and mortality
Grandson announced that he wanted me to take him to Dr Neill's Garden, down by the shores of Duddingston Loch.
As you can imagine, I was more than willing.
He's a lovely companion but does tend to chat on about traffic lights and road signs, of which there are mercifully few - none - in the garden.
Then we came home and made scones - after what I think was his third set of questions in the past couple of weeks about death. This time: why do I have to die? what will it be like when I die? will the days go on after I die? I'm not sure why the little soul is worrying about this; possibly because of the demise of our cats or maybe because he sees pictures of his great-grandparents around our house and his parents' departed guinea pigs around his house. I don't remember worrying about death when I was three. I didn't like my mother putting bows in my hair; I was frightened of big dogs; and I was rather shy - all of these would be about that age. But death? And yet I knew about my father's father, who had died a few months before I was born.
What can one say to him? I tried to reassure him that he didn't need to think about this for a long time and that it would just be like going to sleep. Death is indeed not a cheering prospect but I suppose that as adults we become reconciled to it and can see that if we all lived for ever, there wouldn't be room for the new little people. I do wish my mum were still around, though, at least for a bit longer. No one ever appreciates you as much as your mum... and she would have loved to see the little ones growing up.
Anyway, he enjoyed making the scones and we all enjoyed eating some of them. It's all you can do, really. Try to do a bit of good; look at flowers; eat the odd scone; tidy up; and hope for the best.