How do people get dead? asked Arthur, three.
As we walked past Oakland Cemetery in Sag Harbor.
On the way to Mashashimuet Park.
Along with his brother and two cousins.
How do people get dead? I repeated the question to his father.
As I pushed Arthur in the stroller.
Well, said his father.
Sometimes they get sick and don’t get better.
Oh, said Arthur, satisfied.
How do cars get dead?
Then, answered his own question.
No one fixes them!
We gave Arthur credit for his answer.
Pushed forward to the park.
Where the cousins climbed, swung, dug, spun.
On the walk home, Ezra, five, insisted on entering the cemetery.
Everyone followed.
Looking at the stone of a man buried over one hundred years ago.
A.J. Tabor, died March 4, 1883 at sixty-three years.
The children marveled that bodies were underground.
Eliana, six, said she wanted to see the grave of her great grandmother.
I explained that her paternal great grandmothers were in Philadelphia.
Her maternal great grandmothers were likely in Russia.
She crossed her arms, stamped her foot.
I want to see them!
So, I promised to take her to see the stones of the closer kin.
Then we rolled on.
Ez and Arthur in strollers.
Katusha and Eliana pushing, mothering, tending.
Back to the house on Madison.
To build block towers before dinner.
Matters of death for children
difficult to comprehend.
Beginning of life easier
than what happens at the end.
It takes many conversations.
Loss experiences, too.
For anyone to truly know
how profound the last adieu.
Lynn Benjamin
August 24, 2023
