Heart bones.

A bone in the heart,
she says. When you get old,
your bones fall out,
and there is a bone in your heart,
so it doesn't work anymore.

I think of an old heart,
made sturdy by a slender bone.

One day, your bones fall,
and the slender bone of your heart goes.

What else is there to do?
You collapse.

:::

This morning Mad told me I'm going to die. I struggle with the response because of course she's right. I will die. But for this kid with her tough outer shell and the bundle of worries inside it, I don't want to say too much. So I ask, why do you say that?

Well, I don't want to die, she says. But you're going to die.

I see the things she's struggling with. The viewings of Bambi and the missing mother in How to Train Your Dragon and the myriad insidious ways that kids are confronted with death on a regular basis.

It is 7:00 a.m. I am trying to get ready for work. How to field this question? I settle on a lie: I'm not going to die, Mad.

"You're not?"

No.

"Okay!" She says brightly, and drops it.

This lie. I feel the steady beat of my heart, the slender bone holding it up. Already so much weaker than hers.

Daydream believer.

I picture a small, old house out in the country, somewhat isolated, surrounded by lush green and ancient trees. It's a loved house, full of creaking wooden floors and rooms that are hard to keep warm in the winter but stay cool in the summer - thanks to a network of fans circulating air down a hallway, throughout the rooms.

It's peeling paint but still quite lovely; the front yard is wild and barely tamed. Wildflowers bloom everywhere. Dandelions are actually encouraged.

Somewhere within walking distance is a winding creek full of snapping turtles and crawdads and frogs and minnows.

I have a tiny office somewhere in the back of the house, and it's got a window overlooking my vegetable garden. (I know how to grow vegetables in this picture.) I'm a writer, but I'm writing things that thrill me. My first book is due out in just a few months.

My children run the length of the house and up the stairs where their rooms are. They are connected with nature and full of passion. They remind me every day that life is sweet.

My husband has just returned home from work. He is a teacher at a local middle school.

We are planning a trip to Iceland. We'll go to the library later to pick up books on Iceland, books on learning the language.

As a family, we are always learning.

Cat world.

I've barely moved this morning, just rising out of sleep, when Mad crawls into the bed next to me. "Mama?" She asks, her voice a loud whisper. I pry open my eyes. "Mama?" She says again, now in a normal voice. "Can we go to cat world?"

"Cat world?" I croak.

"They have butterfly cat houses there. That is really cool."

Indeed.