I had to tell her

I had to tell her.

We were supposed to go to the state track meet on Saturday, so I had to tell her.

She was going to hear it from somewhere, so I had to tell her.

The second thing she said this morning, right after "Good morning, mama.  How did you sleep?", was "Can we go see Emma's mom in the hospital?".  So, after breakfast I sat her down.  Yesterday, I told her that we might not be able to go to the meet because her relay teammate's mom was really sick.  This morning, I had to tell her that she died.  It was exactly as hard as I imagined it would be.  Hard enough that I put it off as long as I could.  Hard enough that I couldn't tell her yesterday or before breakfast or in front of her sisters.

Eva knows what death is.  She knows it means forever.  And, before this morning, she knew it didn't happen to moms of little kids.  Moms of kids her age.  Moms she recognized and talked to.  Moms who cheered for her at track meets.  She knew little kids don't lose their moms.  Little kids with no more life experience than she has.  Kids who are barely out of booster car seats.  Kids who still need help doing their hair and reaching higher shelves in the kitchen.  Kids who still need their moms to place band aids and pull splinters.  Kids like her.

She's a sensitive kid, my Eva.  She feels more intensely than any other little girl I know.  She is an open heart, and today she is a broken heart.  I saw it break before my eyes.  I watched her world shift through those big brown eyes, and I could hear our pain echoing back.  As she curled into my lap like the toddler she was not that long ago, I squeezed her till she stopped trembling.  I squeezed her till I stopped crying into her hair.  I squeezed her to let her know I was right there.  I squeezed her to let her feel her mama's presence.

I didn't want to change her this morning.  I didn't want to break her world.  I didn't want her to know that tragedy can come for little kids and their moms.  But I had to tell her, with her on my lap wrapped in the safety of her mama's arms.  Because I was reminded, in the most awful of ways, that not every kid woke up this morning to the warmth they still so desperately need.

Hold your kids.  Do their hair and reach the top shelf for them.  Kiss the cuts before the band aids go on and blow on the splinters to ease the sting.  Give them things to remember before you forget that seconds are flying by.  You'll never get them back.