A Mother's Failure

My five-year-old daughter has lost one of the loves of her short life and she doesn't even know it.  She is in love with a sweet, kind, ten-year-old boy who dropped dead from an aneurysm. I like to tell my daughter the truth as much as possible, but I can't bring myself to tell her this. When I heard the news of this darling boy's passing, I saw his smiling face in my mind and I cried and cried. As the day went on, I went about my daily routine in a daze, seeing his face. When I closed my eyes that night, his face was there. And when I awoke the next morning, he was still with me, still smiling at me. I couldn't shake his image for three days. 

I didn't try to make sense of his death; I'm too wise -- or too jaded -- for that. But I struggled to do what I always do -- find a bright side, a silver lining to which I can cling. No matter how bad the situation, I can find that silver lining. But this time, no inspiration came. I had (and have) no positive feelings about this tragedy. And so I cannot tell my young daughter this horrific news, not without a single uplifting sentiment with which to temper the blow. The eternal optimist has stared defeat square in the eye . . . and thrown up her hands in surrender.