Lately, I’ve been walking Daniel to school a few times a week. I figure we better do it now, before South Carolina turns into a giant frying pan and scorches every living thing, including my interest in breathing outside.

I’m happy to hang out with him. He’s a fun walking partner, and it helps his parents out. Plus, it’s proved to give us plenty of teaching moments–from him, not me. I’ve learned so much!

He’s shown me how the curb is like a balance beam, but better. (If you fall off, it’s a short way down.) He’s introduced me to the secret passageway under my neighbor’s Carolina Hemlock. And he’s taught me that Faris Road sometimes gives out cool stuff for free. Rocks and ripe mulberries, for example. And yesterday, a naked cabbage patch doll somebody tossed from their car.

He’s even inspired me to make my own observations. “See those stumps, all covered with ivy?” I said. “They used to be trees! You know, before Hurricane Helene blew them down.” He patted my arm as if to say, Nice try, but that’s a bummer, Lala.

I’m trying to do better.

This morning, we walked again. I was feeling sad, though I didn’t mention it to Daniel. I’d heard about the passing of my friend, Mary Barr, a beautiful lady whose eyes always sparkled with humor and kindness. Daniel ran through his secret passage, jumped over cracks in the sidewalk, and took my hand as he walked on the balance beam. “Lala,” he asked when we were almost up the hill, “when does the world end?”

Wow. That was a big dose of darkness right there.

“Hmm,” I said. “What do you think?”

He rubbed his chin. “I think when a person dies, the world stops for them.”

“What about heaven?” I asked. “What do you think of that?”

“I’m not talking about heaven,” he said. “I mean this place.” He stopped to rub the toe of his tennis shoe on the sidewalk. “Here.”

“Oh, okay,” I said. “So when people die, life here ends.”

“Yep,” he said, “But there is a good thing. You can still love them. God made it that way. You can look around, and you know what you see?”

“What?”

“More people you can love,” he said. “Loving helps you feel better. And there’s my favorite part!”

“The loving?”

“No!” He laughed. “I’m talking about that.” He pointed at the light pole at the top of the hill. “The button you push to cross the street! I LOVE that thing!”

And so he pushed it. And we crossed.