You taught your three-year-old daughter how to die last night. You were playing with inflatable swords in the courtyard. Spring in the air, electric. Like excitement. Like something on the way.
None of the kids wanted to die. They kept hitting each other with the swords, but not one fell down. And you thought it was important. Developmentally, emotionally, psychologically? Who knows? At least it was necessary if the game was ever going to make sense.
"OK," you said. "Now we're going to work on dying. You stab me and I'll show you how."
She hit you in the stomach, and you staggered to the ground, groaning, flicking your fingers away from your throat as if you were spraying blood.
"Now it's your turn," you said. But she didn't go for it at first. Just ran away laughing as you smacked her back and butt with the inflatable sword.
"OK, now you got to die," you told her.
"Oh yeah," she said, catching on, remembering perhaps how fun it looked. "Ugh" she said, a ridiculous little noise coming from her perfect little face, now scrunched up into a pantomime of pain. She stepped heavily to the right, then to the left, sat, and then rolled onto her back, her arms flapping onto the grass.
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My lovely wife.