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My grandmother past away back in 1996. My seven-year-old son was three at the time, and I felt uneasy letting such a small child attend a funeral, knowing that he was too young to understand exactly what death is. So, I felt that it was best to leave him with his father's relatives. They decided to come to our house to watch him since he goes to bed early, and we would be there at the lay out until 9:00 p.m. My grandmother looked beautiful as always and it was a sad and tearful time for everyone. When we returned home that evening my son was already asleep. I checked on him and then I tried to get as much needed sleep as I could. The next morning my son woke me with a smile. Before I could even get breakfast started he told me that grandma came over last night, and she held him while she explained to him in a childish way that she was going bye-bye. I assumed it was another grandparent he was talking about until he used her name. I told him he was wrong and that grandma could not have come over last night. I could not bring myself to tell him she was dead and it still hurt to repeat those words. He then came over and wrapped his little arms around my legs and said Grandma Moo Cow (his nick name for her) told me she loves you. She said when you were little you wanted her pretty earrings. In the palm of his little hands were my favorite earrings. He then told me how pretty Grandma “Moo Cow” looked in her dress as he described the dress in detail and all that my Grandmother was buried in. I do believe that since I did not take my son to the funeral, grandma came to him to let him say his own good-byes, and ever since that night he seems to understand death without me having to explain it.


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