death be not serious

I love how young kids "understand" death, and the way that sometimes it's a huge, scary thing, as I described here, while at other times it's really no big deal, like this:

The other day, our friend Ava asked, "Why is Pixie eight and I'm six?"

"Because she was born two years earlier than you," we explained.

"But why is she two years older?"

"Because she was born two years sooner."

"What about when I'm seven?"

"She'll still be two years older than you."

"What about when I'm a grown-up?"

"She'll still be two years older than you. You are never going to catch up to your sister."

Ava thought for a moment, and then her eyes lit up and opened wide. "What about when she's dead?"

And this:

Tonight at dinner, as Ezra was devouring some oven-baked fries that I lovingly prepared from scratch grabbed from the freezer, dumped out of the bag, and heated up, he said, "Mommy, can you give me this for lunch tomorrow? And snack tomorrow? And lunch the next day? And dinner? And every day forever?"

"Sure," I said. "I guess you really like them."

But he wasn't really paying attention. "Even when I'm dead, " he continued, "can you put a container of these on top of me? They'll be gone by morning. You won't believe it."