Hmmmm

You know, I've never had to test the theory, but I have always thought that if anyone I knew died, ANYONE, I could look at that death and say, hey, they are in a better place. Lucky them. Logically that makes sense to me.

So why did Mirra's funeral affect me so profoundly last night? I sat there just trying to breathe, through most of it. And afterward, I wanted to sit there in the parking lot and cry–sob, like I was thirteen years old.  If I was alone, I probably would have. As it was, I put on my sunglasses and tried not to vomit.

There is this thought. Very little to do with the maelstrom I successfully repressed last night. But has been niggling all day.

When a child dies in infancy, it is enough to say you loved them, that you felt their spirit, and loved them. People get that. Your heart and your mind get that. You are overwhelmed and awed and dumbfounded by the depth of it.

But.

What if this child died ten or thirty or sixty years into his life, what then? Is it still enough to say, I loved him? Or do I want to say he made me laugh or mowed my lawn every week when I was sick, and blush to consider his faults? Do I love him less, because I know him more? Has his value decreased because he has grown and progressed and his skin has outgrown my own and shelters secret joys and pain and longings I cannot comprehend?

I think I have been trying to love grown and semi-grown people because of what they do for me, or I for them. Or what I hope they one day will do. 

Why do you love the ones you love? Really. I haven't been able to define that for myself. But it's bothering me. 

Not as much as the fact that I haven't been able to use the bathroom once today because Dustin gets hysterical if I set him down. Well. That's not true. He's hysterical right now, because although I have him on my lap, he does not have my undivided attention. So I could concievably set him on the floor and let him be hysterical there instead, while I use the bathroom for thirty seconds. But his mother has been due to arrive any minute for the last hour, and I, deciever that I am, do not want her to walk in while he is hysterical and by himself on the floor. It's all about appearances. And kidney damage. 

.

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