Practicing grief.

“Daddy, no. He’s not dead. Gandalf isn’t allowed to be dead.”

I was seven, or so. This is the readthrough of LoTR that I remember, cuddled up with my dad as he read it to me. He even did the voices.

“I’m sorry sweetie, but it looks like he is.”

“No. He’s gonna come back, right? Him and Boromir? This isn’t fair.”

Dad knew, of course, how this book panned out, but he wasn’t going to spoil me.

“Little one, life’s not fair. And neither is death. It’s not something you can come back from.”