“Um…Bobby?” My little brother’s voice sounded over my father’s shoulder where he sat books spread out on the desk, quietly tapping his laptop.
“Ian.”
“Would you be sad if Mommy died?”  My father stopped.  He swiveled his small chair to face my brother.  Ian stood beside the desk awkwardly.  The usually carefree face of a six-year old was scrunched into an unusual look of concern.  His eyes locked on an invisible object beyond his toy chest, as if conscious of the strange discomfort in his question.
“Of course, baby.  I love her; she’s my wife.”
He looked up at my father.  “Would you cry?” Ba shifted uncomfortably.
“Yes,” pausing for a moment. “Yeah.  I would cry.” 
“Yeah.”  Ian pouted slightly with a look of defeat.  “I think I would cry too.”  Big round eyes started to well up with tears.
My father bent forward to pick up the by now limp body of a toddler and place him in his lap.  Ian pressed his ear against my father’s chest, hands hanging weakly by his sides. 
“And what if you died?” Ba was silent.  Ian answered his own question.  “Then I would have no parents.”
He was very sad for the rest of the afternoon.

“Why would he ask that?” I pressed the phone to my ear harder to drown out the noise of the washing machine.
“I don’t know,” Ba mused, “I think his teacher’s husband was recently diagnosed with cancer.  She might have mentioned something about losing loved ones in class.”
“That’s terrible.”  What causes children to brood about the traumatic realities of death and passing?  I know I wasn’t thinking about things like that when I was his age.  It was hard enough to get my mind past Ninja Turtles, fruit roll-ups, and this blond girl named Nicole.
“I guess he looks at his old man and thinks…well…’He’s old!’”
“Ba…” My own eyes were starting to get misty.
“…So!  Did you see the game last night?”
“Yeah,” I blinked back the tears and cleared my throat.  “Painful, huh?”