My daughter asked me tonight what I did when my grandparents died.
At first I said, “there’s not much you can do,” but then upon reflection, I tried to explain—doing a terrible job of it—what I did, and what I do, which is everything, in a way.
Everything I do I do for the people whose blood I share. Those who came before me and those who came after me. There is nothing else; and for all of them there is something rather than nothing.
Unfortunately this is not the sort of thing you can explain to someone, child or adult, that doesn’t already understand it, so for now it will go unclarified. But maybe someday she will understand it.