When I was two years old, I scared the living daylights out of my dad. He found me crouched down, inspecting the dark, fuzzy, mouse-sized body of a vole that our orange tiger cat Zeke had killed and left on the flagstones outside our door. Why wasn’t it moving? I asked. My dad, who loved nothing more than explaining things to inquisitive children, must have told me that it was dead and described what “dead” meant in terms he thought my two-year-old self might be able to understand.
I listened carefully, digested this. I looked up at him. “I’m gonna die in the spring,” I said.
I was two—I had no idea what I was talking about. I have no memory of this, except the memory of it through my dad’s eyes, when he told me about it many years later. I can only imagine how he felt hearing those words come out of my mouth. Full Article »