On Monday, the family attended my Uncle Harold's service. It was a wonderful life tribute filled with stories of near- death adventures, wild motor cycle rides, and military attacks in the jungles of Guam. Later that evening we were dining at Fiesta Guadalajara. My young son, Gavan, looked up at the big screen TV to see the car races showing, and asked, "Is that how your brother died? From the cars?"
It took me a split second to understand his question. Then I realized: viewing Harold's lifeless 90-year-old body, hearing all the motorcycle stories at the funeral, and having visited my brother's gravesite on several other occasions, Gavan jumbled all the information into one lump sum, trying to process it.
I giggled a little and said, "No, sweetheart."
I went on to explain that my Uncle Harold loved fast dirt bikes (not cars) and passed away just last week. My brother was a musician, but was really ill at the time he died, many years ago.
After my brief discussion, Gavan simply held out his tiny hand and asked for another dollar to go capture a rubber animal in the claw machine. Ahhh. The random mind of a kindergartener...
