At four, my daughter's had her share of the death talk.  When she was at her old school, two of her teachers lost a loved one -- one a father and one a husband -- unexpectedly. Their grief was palpable, and we all had to talk to our kids about it when they were around two.  Last year my husband lost his grandmother and we lost our cat, Sybil, who was 18 years old.Of all these deaths, my daughter focused the most on Sybil.  While she felt bad for her teachers and her father, she didn't really know these other people all that well.  Sybil -- well, she knew Sybil. Sybil lived with us.  Sybil had been around every day of my daughter's life. She had a relationship with Sybil.  Then suddenly Sybil was gone. 

Do you remember the HBO movie "If These Walls Could Talk"? Or more importantly for this post, the 2000 version, "If These Walls Could Talk 2"?

Last week, a dear family friend called me, her voice hysterical with tears, because her elderly mother fell down a flight of stairs and they were waiting for the ambulance. I raced over as the ambulance was leaving, and drove my friend to the hospital. Her mother, already in fragile health, needed a new hip.

One of my oldest and dearest friends died last month, after what seemed like an all-to-brief and unfairly fatal illness; this post is about her, about friendship and about what we shared.

The other day in the car the little angel asked if the leaves HAD to die. The way she asked it broke my heart into teeny-weeny pieces. “Yes,” I said. “The leaves have to fall so that new leaves can grow in the spring. If they don’t fall off, the new baby leaves won’t be able to grow.” She thought about that for a little bit, and then murmured, “I wish they didn’t have to die, even if they are pretty.” Pretty heavy for three-and-a-half.