Me: 'What is that on your lip?'
Beckett: 'What?'
Me: 'The Black thing?'
Beckett: 'What?'
Me (removing the small black spec of whatever it was from her lower lip): 'This'
Beckett: (Smiles)
Me: 'What's that? Is it dust? Is it a piece of rye from the Dal? Is it a beauty spot? There are so many things that can be black!'
Beckett: 'That's rye. It's black. Your beard is also black.'
Me (Chuckling): 'Yes, my beard is black but it is starting to get white. And as I grow older it'll keep getting whiter.'
Beckett (Pensive): 'And then you will go to God's house?'
Me (Holy Fuck! I didn't see that coming!): 'Eventually maybe!'
Beckett: 'And Mumma will also go to God's house.'
Me (Shit is getting real now!): 'Maybe!'
Beckett (Upset): 'But I don't want you to go to God's house!'
Beckett: 'I also don't want Mumma to go to God's house!'
Me (At my reassuring best): 'Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere for a long long time!'
Beckett (smiling): 'I love you Pappa!'
Me (smiling back): 'I love you too.'
P.S: The maybes are only because I genuninely believe that we could be the first generation of humans to avoid the inconvenience of dying altogether.
