As we drive past the cemetery,
four-year-old Leah says, Let’s stop.
I want to see the dead people.
 
I pull the car over and unlatch the iron gate.
As we walk among the rows,
the wind gusts dry leaves in our path.
 
Do dead people know they are dead? she asks.
Before I can think what to say—another question,
How do dead people eat?
They aren’t hungry anymore, I reply.
 
Leah points to a low stone. What does it say?
A child about her age is buried there.
Rather than explain, I say simply,
Her name was Catherine.
 
And that is enough to satisfy Leah today.

 
This poem first appeared in Literary Mama.
Used here with the author's permission.