Pings

Between sobs, you bargain for a stranger’s life that’s already been lost.

You consider ways to reverse it. A solo resurrection think tank.

You’re 7 and saying things that are just… beyond what one expects or is ready for. From anyone, but especially you. My daughter usually dwells on Minecraft and school and friends. This level of devastation is an unexpected variant.

You heard about it on the news, this heart — these hearts, really — that stopped. Not naturally or peacefully, either. Prematurely. In a darker way. In a cruel way.

Your resulting tailspin is hard to watch, but it’s powered by everything I love about you. You’re 7, but you have a fundamental, studied understanding of Justice, and your tears are just…searching for it. Each droplet is a sonar ping, echoing and fading in dark, existential water.

I tell you what’s true and that’s all.

• That it’s OK to be sad about this.
• That it’s good to acknowledge and know what you feel.
• That your heart is massive. Like a star.
• That your Justice-seeking tears that ping and fade and ping and fade in a seemingly cyclical opus are a symptom of your bravery and compassion, of your curiosity and hope and love.
• That the world *needs* you and your star-sized heart.

But that’s all I have to give you. For now. I hope that’s enough. For now. This isn’t over. This is a permanent mental switch flip.

You draw a picture of those whose hearts stopped in the cruel way. Only in your picture, they’re very much alive. You write “I love you” on it.

Tomorrow we’ll attach it to a balloon and let it go. A letter to those you’ll never meet will rise.

Its ascent will be a slower, different kind of sonar ping. One that assures stilled hearts they’re loved, never forgotten.