The Penelope Tree

It is hard to be reverent about dead hamsters. There is something so dark and funny and macabre about their stiff little bodies; recently chubby and furry, stupidly plodding away at their wheels convinced they are getting somewhere. But I look past this sad, comical carrion to my five-year old’s big wet eyes and know a certain amount of decorum is in order.

He is dictating a letter, to put inside the baggie that will be the hamster’s coffin. "Here lies Penelope," he says, his voice (and my heart) breaking. "She was a sweet, good hamster. Rest in Peace." He learned this from a mock funeral for a dead bird found during recess at preschool. He also learned that worms eat dead bodies. This information upset him and has been a theme is his colorings, imaginings and dreams lately, and I know he is thinking of it now.

“Sage,” I say gently. "Worms can’t eat through plastic." I avoid my husbands’ disapproving stare. I kiss Sage on the forehead. "Daddy will put you to bed." Mike and I are going out to bury Penelope.

Mike is standing in the hallway waiting. He and I exchange pained expressions, trying not to cry or laugh. As we walk towards the elevator the door opens and Sage calls out: “Did you double bag her?’

"Yes," I say, in a solemn tone. But that is it. Mike's nose makes a noise behind me. We are giggling as we get on the elevator and by the time we reach the lobby we are leaning against the walls, howling.

Why is death so funny? I recall laughing at the funeral home when my father died. The funeral director must have thought my sister and I had murdered Daddy. I can’t remember what had set us off but it was so hard to stop. All that emotion has to come out somehow, like a burst container in the microwave. It oozes out the cracks whether you want it to or not.

Mike and I walk to the park. It is cool and foggy. I have brought the gardening tools I use to plant marigolds in my window box every mother’s day. I start to dig but my hand gets tired so Mike finishes the hole. I want it to be deep so no dogs dig up Poor Penelope. Mike comments that there should be lightening and I should be standing over him with a lantern. That almost gets us going again, but I resist the urge and try to be somber, for Sage’s sake.

We put a stick in the dirt to mark the grave, and notice that an unmarked police car is making its second pass. That is our cue to head home.

When I get in I go into Sage’s room and quietly climb into his bed with him. I can hear Jude snoring in the bunk above us. Sage sniffles and I turn and embrace him, smelling his warm hair. I love his hair, it smells and feels exactly like this scratchy green sweater I had in junior high.

"Why don’t we think about good things that Penelope did?" I whisper. Sage recounts her many escape attempts and the way her behind looked when she ran around in her little plastic play ball.

After a minute I realize he has fallen asleep and I lie there thinking about things can be sad and funny and terrible and good all at the same time. If I had my way my children would never hurt, never shed one tear. I hope my son learned from his experience with pet death that love is worth it, that removing your heart from its protective plastic wrapping means it will get scorched and bruised and left out in the rain, but oh God it is worth it, to love, just to quietly and fiercely and joyfully love.

Yesterday Sage and I walked to the place in the park where Penelope lies. What I hadn’t realized that night was that we buried her under this fabulous tree, very old and knotty and twisted. The stick was still there, after all this time. Except for a few beer cans it was just as we left it.

"Are you glad we came to see it?" I asked, worried that we might have resurrected the pain of poor Penelope’s demise.

"Yeah," said Sage. And I could tell he was. We walked home, holding hands and swinging our arms, and talking about What Hamsters Do in Heaven.