“Where are his Bones?”

“Mommy, where are Daddy’s bones?”

We’re in the car, where most of our pivotal conversations happen. He asks me this question with a definitive tone that dares me to keep this secret, and just like all the other moments when I knew it was time to talk about the topic at hand, I know it’s time to talk about this.

But it’s something of a complicated question to answer, since Robb chose to be cremated. I don’t know how to say those words; or I don’t want to.

“Well, buddy, your dad knew that he would leave his entire body behind when he died.”

I find that I call him ‘your dad’ now instead of ‘Daddy,’ since Tucker stands taller than my chin and I don’t think he would still call his dad ‘Daddy’ if he were here. It seems like a transition we should make anyway, even though Robb’s not here.

“He knew his body would be just an empty shell with no part of him in it at all, and he decided that he wanted his bones to be turned into rocks and scattered in the mountains.”

They’re listening, thankful for honesty and respect. Which I intend to always give them. Always.

“So, after he died, they gave me a box filled with rocks and sand, stones and ashes. I took the rocks to a mountain lake that your dad loved, and I sprinkled them into the sand by the water.”

“And that’s where his bones are?”

“That’s where his bones are.”

“Mommy, can we go there? Can we go to that lake? And can we touch the sand?  Please?”

Yes, my loves. We can.

We’ll put it on our list of 100 Things To Do This Summer. Somewhere between Dairy Queen and Sleeping on the Trampoline.