It was an early rising this morning and I lay on the couch with the baby at my feet, watching the light change outside, when my elder son of the flesh came out of his room, his skin still marked from the sheets. But his mind already had questions.
“Someone killed a student and mailed the body, or something like that,” he told me. Ah, the schoolyard, the original Twitter. 140 characters, all children, sharing fragments only half-understood.
“I have heard that,” I told him. Prompted by others I added, “The student was older, almost grown.”
His relief was visible at this news. But after some time engaged in the business of the day he asked again, “Why would someone kill someone and mail their body?”
Once, there would have been a rush to prevent me answering. Now there is a grateful space left that I am here to answer. I thought on in it a little. In the end I told him the truth. People kill for different reasons, and it is difficult to say. One must ask him, and he might not wish to answer.
I worry he will ask me about me, but he does not. Later he comments that it is a bad thing, to kill others. I agree, and then he adds, what if they are bad. I tell him there are times to kill, but most people never are in those times. He seems content with the answers, at least for now.
It surprises me, how much I hope his questions remain so theoretical.