I’m hunting for a parking lot outside the Starbucks on Fifth. My six year old stepson Jack is in the backseat.
“You know what I hate?” Jack says. “When you’re going to park, and somebody else pulls into your parking spot.”
“I know” I say. “That’s the worst.”
“Well,” Jack says. “It’s not the worst. The worst thing is dying.”
He’s philosophical that way.
“Really?” I said. “But I think when you die, you go to the coolest place ever.”
He ponders this as we park and walk in. I hold his hand.
“But it hurts when you die,” he says. “Maybe not when you’re old, but when you’re young, it hurts. Like if you get shot.”
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