Fathered Five

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Gravedigger, when you dig my grave, could you make it shallow so that I can feel the rain?
—Dave Matthews

Mortality bites. That’s what that song is trying to say. (There’s also an outstanding acoustic version here. Less angry.) Another line says, “You should never have to watch as your only children are lowered in the ground—never have to bury your own babies.” Indeed. That is the fear I dare not speak.

My brother put Elvis down a few weeks ago. Elvis was his lifetime companion, a 13-year-old pit bull he’d had since a puppy. He’d been there with him through his Doors phase, his shaved-head phase, his first failed marriage, and his schizophrenia phase. None of the Five had ever known a time when Elvis was not there, and then, one day, he wasn’t. It took Boy 4 about six weeks to notice.

Boy 4: Whew’s Ewvis?
Her Hotness: Well, he’s not here anymore. His body got really old and sick and he died.
Boy 4: He died?
Her Hotness: Yeah. So he won’t be here anymore and we won’t get to see him anymore.
Boy 4: Are we gonna die?
Her Hotness: Yes, someday we will. But not for a long, long time.
Boy 4: But are we?
Her Hotness: Not right now, but someday.
Boy 4: But are we?
Her Hotness: No.

Boy 4 chewed on this for a while but you could see in his face that he couldn’t quite wrap his head around the idea. Something he had always known was no more. A few days later, mommy was helping him with a runny nose. She mentioned that he was getting a cold. He said, “Po-haps I’m gonna get old and sick and die like Ewvis.”

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This entry was posted on Tuesday, January 29th, 2008 at 6:42 pm and is filed under Musings. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.