On a mother's perception of her child's perception of death

This endearing post by a mother inspired the below.

She lifted up her little head,
Looked up at me like never before,
“Mommy”, she said, “if you get dead,
Then I won’t have a Mom anymore.”

My heart leapt up into my throat,
My heavy hands dropped to my knees,
I strove to catch up and devote
My mind to say something with ease.

But speechless was, and stayed that way
Until I said “Who told you that?”,
And thought in vain what to convey
In words to my precocious brat.

I could have said so many things,
So many things about death, to see ‘f
She'd comprehend the peace it brings,
As does pain's companion, relief;

That death completes all we begin;
For every kiss upon on her face,
And every time I cradle her chin,
And every warm and snug embrace,

There is a kiss yet to be planted,
A cuddle her chin has yet to feel,
A warm, snug hug yet to be granted
Through an application of death’s dark seal.

“I made it up myself”, came the response,
And I, by now, had had enough;
She went back to her squiggly fonts,
I, to my laundry, and other stuff.

Upon seeing a drop of water on my windshield

I see you form a lens on my windshield

As I stop at a red light,

Lone clear drop of water.

A few of your companions fall around you,

But you have captivated my interest:

A perfectly round drop of water

Deposited by your angel escorts

Upon my windshield.

Have you memories, water drop,

Of your past descents, each ending a cycle

That all began with glorious creation itself?

Have you memories?

Were you amongst the drops that swallowed up

The world of Nuh?

Or did you land upon his strong and noble shoulder,

And stay there for a while?

Or were you a drop that clung to the hair of Jonah

As he came to his senses in the repulsive darkness?

Did you slide down his cheek and mix with his tears

As he turned in humility to his, and your, Master.

Or do you trace yourself to a proud parentage

Of one that sprung from the muddy heels

Of Ismaeel, as he lay on his back, a crying infant?

Did you quench his thirst, and make his dear mother

Weep with joy?

Or did you find yourself in a pail with little Yusuf,

When they hoisted him out of a well?

Cold and lost, but reassured.

Were you there, dear drop?

Or were you a party of those that splashed upon

The shores of the Red Sea, as Musa called upon his Lord?

Or were you perched up high on a liquid wall,

Atop all your companions;

Or down, at the bottom, watching his blessed feet

Lead the rest across a damp sea bed?

You cannot hold on, as forces break the tension and

Pull you down in a streak, just a little bit.

Weary drop: have you a memory of quenching the thirst

Of a righteous soldier of Talut,

Slithering down his parched throat?

Were you bid that honor?

Or did you babble in the stream that noble Maryam drank from,

And did you witness the sacred birth?

Did you touch litle Isa, little drop?

Were you a comfort to him and his mother?

Were you?

And when my Prophet rested at Badr,

Did you come down and wet his beautiful face?

Did you feel his love as he rubbed you into his beard?

Did your escorts stay by your side

A little longer than usual that time?

Were you bid that honor, my dear little drop?

Were you?

And now, as you slide down my windshield:

Does this my encounter with you separate

Your past glories from your future ones?

The honor is mine.