Welcome to the Tales of a Kitchen Witch Blog.
Last week, a former employee of the pub that James works at passed away. He was struck by an eighteen wheeler while riding his bicycle through an intersection. When James told me, I burst into tears. We weren’t particularly close, in fact I hadn’t seen him since he stopped working at the pub, but I was so sad that someone so young (my age!) was gone. He had been to our house, had celebrated the fourth of July with us, he had been over for dinners and goofed around with my kids. We had spent a lot of time talking on summer nights while we waited for the last stragglers to leave the pub so James could close up. He was a nice guy, though quite messed up. I was crying because my first thought was “now he’ll never have the chance to get himself sorted and on the right path.”
The kids wanted to know what happened, why was mommy crying? So I told them what happened. They remembered Eric and they were sad too. I braced myself for some hard questions, but I should have known, after growing up with the specter of my father, my kids know more about death than most. And the kids took care of it on their own.
Willow: “What happens when we die?”
Patrick: “I think when we die we either go home to the Summerland to be with the Goddess or we get to be born again as a new baby and start over.”
Willow: “That sounds nice.”
Patrick: “Yeah, it does.”
And then they asked if we could leave flowers for Eric. And ran off to play, all questions satisfied for the moment.