Rockabye Baby

maryrose smyth


I let my son, 6, have it, tell him something someone told me once, a lie to stem his fret, not a lie, more an “unsure,” but say it like I believe it.

“All good boys go to heaven,” I tell him.

The sunset taking too long, my son’s room storybook rosy.  The next minute he puts me in my place, hope diamonds flow from pale silk, “Mama,” he wails, standing on his bed, my face between his tiny orchid palms, “I don’t wanna die, don’t wanna get old, don’t wanna be a grandpa.  I wanna play.  I don’t want my toys to miss me, don’t want to give my toys to kids who have none. Are there toys in heaven? Any sand toys up there?”


“God’s got it all worked out,” I tell him, “Got his share of toys and then some. Heaven’s full of toys, sand toys…

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