The stories of our lives are a collection of chapters that we're barely aware of. We don't even realize we are in a new chapter until well after the previous chapter has long since concluded. For example, there was a period in my life when it seemed like my wife and I were constantly attending weddings — and then we weren't. If anything, weddings have largely been replaced by wakes; a result of the cruelties of life, tragedy, and circumstance. It's no wonder books and movies are divided into chapters, given the parallels to our own condition. Except with our lives, it seems only in retrospect can these chapters be fully appreciated as many struggle to appreciate the significance of things as they are happening.
Apparently "many" does not include my daughter. When she was eight, she was sick for a few days and missed some school. Although not normally a big deal, this time it was during a locally sponsored trout farming program for my daughter's class, and she was ill right in the middle of the die-off phase. The night before her return to school, she shared her misgivings with her mother:
"I really think (specific given-names of multiple alevin, aka baby fish) died by now because they were really sick the last day I was there," she said with difficulty, taking a moment before continuing. "They're probably dead, but I guess that's what I get for loving them too much," she said, breaking down as she was consumed by her sense of loss.
While this provided us with a great opportunity to discuss natural life cycles and the reality that everything that lives will eventually die, we learned more from the moment than she did. Our daughter has the heart of a child, yet to be jaded by the cruelty of life, so she loved with all of her heart. Of course she did. And there's nothing wrong with that.
