“I want to watch this,” said our five-year-old. I had turned on the television to find some sort of ridiculous afternoon movie, some pablum from the Eighties finding an audience only in re-run ignominy. What he glimpsed instead was the procession for Edward Kennedy’s funeral, and he was intrigued.

Since my husband and I were both moved by Senator Kennedy’s passing and curious about our son’s interest, we left it on. Our son’s interest was piqued by the long winding cortege of Cadillacs and vans, blinking motorcycles and police cars; it was like his own personal parade to automotive heaven.

But he stayed glued for other reasons. We were happy to indulge him with answers to questions he peppered us with for the hour and a half we watched (“Why are the hazard lights on?” he asked. Or “Why are they driving so slow?” “Why did he die?” and “Why is he in a coffin?”) and it gave us a meaningful opportunity to explore issues of death, memorials, and government. He was rapt for reasons beyond the long string of cars winding through the streets of DC.

We decided to go to dinner around the time Senator Kennedy was being laid to rest, but our son resisted, despite our going to his favorite restaurant. “It’ll be on in highlights and replays for days,” we assured him.

“What are highlights?” he asked.

“Moments of an event they play over and over again,” we explained.

“Okay,” he said, suspicious.

At dinner my husband received an email from a friend with a photo of the La Cañada fire in southern California. “Why is there a fire?” asked our son. We explained that weather conditions, possible lightning strikes or human error could have contributed. And we talked about friends we knew who fought fires, flying in airplanes and dropping retardant and supplies to firefighters on the ground. We continued eating, my husband and I discussing completely mundane issues of the day while our son ate in silence.

Our son piped up in his best prophet’s voice. “There’s two things,” he stated, as if converting the unwashed. “One, the forest fire. Two, the funeral of Tedward Kennedy. These are things happening today. Planes flying, forests burning…” he began a winding speech rambling like a tiny Cassandra, creating surreal juxtapositions of the issues of his day.

I watched with amused recognition. “You have an apocalyptic vision, son,” I said.

My husband just laughed. He knew it personally–his childhood was informed by reading the encyclopedia and knowing more about the Middle East at eleven than most adults in their lifetime.

But it occurred to me as I watched our son’s recap that he was trying to make sense of these things he could not actually fit into his world view. He was shaken by the impermanence of the forest and of this man who was no longer walking among other men. He was scared, and was trying to process the complicated feelings he had about both fire (which has always scared him) and dying, which he has never witnessed but is trying to understand. I realized I needed to intervene.

But how does one guide the conversation without minimizing its import? “There are scary things in the world,” I explained. “People die, forests burn, bad things happen. Not just bad things, but sad things.” Seriously, how does one address these issues?

“We hear about these things, the bad things, because they scare us. People want to talk about things that scare us, so it’s on the news all the time. But nobody talks about the good things because it’s boring. No-one talks about the rest of life because it’s just like our life: people working, going to school, eating food and sleeping. Almost everywhere you go people are doing the same things. Maybe they eat and sleep in different ways but they still do it. The world is mostly an amazing and wonderful place. Most people are kind. And good things happen all the time.”

He looked unconvinced.

“And there are certain trees that won’t even make baby trees if there isn’t a forest fire. Their seedpods won’t even sprout unless the heat from the fire opens them. Fire is a part of life and a good part of nature. Nature needs fire.”

He ate the rest of his meal without too much fire and brimstone or philosophizing.

This morning we woke up together.

“Can I turn this on?” he asked, holding the remote to the television.

“Of course.”

“Can you find the highlights of Tedward Kennedy’s funeral?”

So we spent the morning watching Face the Nation and Meet the Press. He’s a pretty special kid.

Popularity: 2% [?]