“Why sharks die?” he asked with cheeks full of raisins.
“They just get very old and die,” I said, not wanting to attempt an explanation of the food chain to a five year-old with improving but far from perfect English.
“Like you,” he said.
I smiled, because if you don’t have anything nice to say…
“Do I die?” he asked.
“Everyone dies. But not for a long long time,” I said.
“I don’t…I don’t want to…nevermind.”
He gnawed his sandwich down to the crust, leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his bulging belly and continued his theological inquiry.
“Where sharks sleep when they dead?” he asked.
“Where do they sleep?” I asked.
“They sleep with Jesus?” he asked.
“They sleep with Jesus and play with Jesus and talk to Jesus…and eat with Jesus,” I said.
“I eat with Jesus?” he asked, picking up crumbs with his fingertips and licking them off.
“When we die we get to eat with Jesus. Yep.”
“Wooooohooooo! I want that.”
No offense to Jesus, but I’m pretty sure most of those o’s were for eating.
But, yes, Wooooohooooo! Amen.