The young leaf and the dead leaf are really one. – Thich Nhat Hanh Already, at seven, she says things like I know I’ll die someday and, as her mother, I have an urge to correct her, explain how her small bones and hands will be her own forever because they have not yet knocked on the door of the rest of her life. But I have no evidence to prove her wrong. Besides, I’m guilty of teaching her how the body has so much to become after it has been us. She tells me once her body is done being her, she’s going to be a fish, as if to say at least there’s that, considering death is, let’s face it, no fun at all, and considering we must get through it anyway, isn’t it good to know certain possibilities are bound to even the most uncertain endings? Incapable of deserting this world of the living, we become its next season. We become fish. Already, in my thirties, I am learning to think like a river, flip like a wave between dread and joy. At least there’s that.