Chapter 8
Peter stopped sleeping with the photograph.
Good.
For three nights, he insisted it remain on the bedside table facing him.
Then one morning he turned it face-down himself.
I asked why.
“Don’t need.”
That hurt in a good way.
He had me.
Not the image.
Then he asked about funerals.
“What is funeral?”
I gave the five-year-old version.
“A place people say goodbye after someone dies.”
“Do they have flowers?”
“Yes.”
“Cake?”
“Sometimes food.”
He thought.
“Can be birthday funeral?”
“No.”
Probably.
Then:
“If you die when I’m old, I cry?”
“Maybe.”
“If no cry?”
“Still love.”
He remembered.
Good.
Then he asked the question I had been waiting for.
“Does Miles keep chair?”
“No.”
“Who does?”
“No one.”
He frowned.
Apparently every political crisis eventually returns to furniture.
I explained simply.
“My job belongs to me while I do it.”
“And after?”
“Someone else does the job.”
“Me?”
“Only if you’re grown and you want it and people trust you.”
He looked horrified.
“I want dinosaurs.”
“Then excellent career planning.”
He smiled.
That afternoon, he destroyed the paper funeral crown Gwendolyn had prepared for him.
Not because I told him.
He found it in a box.
“What this?”
“Something for tomorrow that never happened.”
He put it on.
Walked around.
Declared himself “funeral king.”
Ruth nearly choked laughing.
I did not correct him.
Objects lose power quickly when children refuse adult meaning.
The wreath was harder.
I had it removed.
Not destroyed.
Later, flowers were separated and placed around the estate.
Peter picked one white rose.
Gave it to the cook.
No symbolism.
Perfect.
May you like
The rehearsal for my death had become random flowers in ordinary rooms.
Exactly what I wanted.
