Does Gone Mean Dead To A 3-Year Old?

Spot wasn't there the next day, or for the days after that and we felt that. We felt loss. We felt heavy hearts. But we learned to talk to him at night, just as my now deceased mother taught us. "Night Spot."
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We were having a picnic, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and crunching our potato chips. I was dancing around the checkered red and black blanket that my mother had rolled out for our picnic, moving to the nursery rhyme beat in my head. I was pushing my hands to the cloudless light blue sky wearing a light pink cotton dress, my Mary Jane's moving my feet in the green grass. My brother Jimmy-11 months older than me-was going too far away from the blanket, and my worried mother kept calling him to come back. Fast cars went past the fence that protected us from the small hill that led to the freeway. Our beagle, Spot, was trying to snag treats from my mother. We were in a small park directly across from our two-level similar looking white-painted houses in Albany. Even though they all looked alike, at three I knew which one was ours.

Suddenly Spot took off toward the fence to chase off another dog. I think he was protecting us, or his treats. He chased the dog running along the fence until they reached the woods and then there was the sound of a honking car and and a thump. My mother immediately started to cry. She packed up our picnic quickly and took Jimmy's hand and mine and whisked us back to our house. We went inside our latched fence and then she sat us down on our back steps where she just cried and cried. Where was Spot? How come he didn't come back with us. In three-year-old code, I asked my mother these questions. She took my face and brought it to her sweating chest. I could feel her heart racing as fast as one of Jimmy's toy cars which he dragged around the house sometimes crashing into my dolls.

It was a hot day because the sun was high and my mother had lotioned Jimmy and me up because we were so blonde that our scalps were pink. I recalled we hated the lotioning part of those days. We just wanted to be in the park playing with mommy and Spot. It was always the four of us during the day, until the end of the day when Dad came home.

"Spot has gone to heaven," my mother said pointing to the sun, motioning past it. Jimmy asked where heaven was. He asked if it was further away than Cape Cod? "Yes," my mother said. "It's a place like Cape Cod but a place where Spot is now playing with other dogs. He's getting treats and he even has new toys." My mother was trying to keep it together when she explained these things to us, but then she would just sob through our questions. "When Spot come back," I asked. "There is no back in heaven," my mother replied. "Spot is happy, a new kind of happy." Jimmy and I started to cry. "But we want Spot to live with us," said Jimmy. "Daddy bought him." I nodded along. "We give him treats," I said.

That is when our mother told us that night we would talk to Spot right before we went to sleep. I suppose Jimmy and I were excited at this notion that Spot would be returning. That's the night we learned of prayers. "We must tell Spot how much we love him," said our mother. "But he's not here," said Jimmy. "No," my mother countered. "Spot will always be in our hearts. Please trust me that Spot is happy but is sleeping now just like the two of you need to do." We always did as Spot did, so we went to sleep with our fingers touching the tips of our other hand. This was praying, as my mother explained.

Spot wasn't there the next day, or for the days after that and we felt that. We felt loss. We felt heavy hearts. But we learned to talk to him at night, just as my now deceased mother taught us. "Night Spot."

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