Christopher, 5 years old, and I, 40, stood at the door of our ancient log house in the Ottawa Valley, gazing upon our 100 acres of hills, trees and rock. And I said (because I'd read it somewhere, I think in 'Catch 22'), "Someday son, this will all be yours. What will you do with it?"

We stepped back into the room. I lay down and he sat on my chest.

"Cars," he said.

"Cars?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "I'm going to fill it with cars."

"You're going to turn this lovely forest into a used car lot?"

"And I'm going to give you a car, and mommy and grandpa, and ..." "Grandpa will be dead by then," I said.

"Dead?"

"Well yes," I uttered without thinking. "We all die."

Christopher's face became stricken.

"I don't want to die!" his voice quivering, tears forming in the corner of his eyes. Omigod what had I done? I'd forgotten the terror that accompanies one's first introduction to mortality.

"It's OK, it's OK. You're not going to die. Not for a long time."

He stared into my eyes searching for some kind of meaning. And suddenly it occurred to me how absurd it all is, to experience a universe of such wondrous beauty only to have it taken away.

My mind was racing. What could I say? I hated to see my son in this gripping fear, and yet

couldn't bring myself to spread stories I didn't believe, stories of transition, of heaven and hell, or coming back as a lap cat.

Instead, I said, "Don't worry. You're not going to die for a long time. First Grandpa has to die, then me, and I intend to be around for a long time." That was basically true... not an irrevocable law but a pretty good bet.

"Grandpa dies first?" he asked.

"Yes. So keep your eye on him. As long as he's here you have nothing to worry about."

Christopher seemed mollified for the moment. I knew he'd be doing a lot of thinking, but that by the time his grandfather died, he would have arrived at a calmer relationship with the anticipation of death.

For a little while after that, Christopher would come back to me when the fear returned.

"Grandpa first, right dad?" "Right."

And it faded. Priorities change as we grow older. Death didn't hold the terror for me at age 40 that it once did.

And now, at 65, even less so. I gain a calmness as I age, a surrender to the inexorabilities of existence. Not a giving up, but more an acceptance of the inevitable, and a sense of peace.