The first book caught my eye from its display, the title singing to my soul, The Poet’s Dog, a novel by Patricia MacLachlan. The second, I found flipping through the bins of picture books, its title, Until We Meet Again (Susan Jones), speaking to my family’s recent season of loss. Little did I know how thematically intertwined they both were.
Both titles speak to children bearing and moving through the loss of a loved one.
The Poet’s Dog is more novella than novel and told in sparse prose. But it is told from the point of view of Teddy, the poet Sylvan’s dog. And Teddy, while wise and loquacious for a dog, is dealing with the stark life left him by Sylvan’s death. There is a beauty and simplicity to the unfolding of this tale and the healing that takes place. Teddy, in saving two siblings from a raging storm, is himself saved by their companionship. The siblings, Nickel and Flora, and readers don’t find out what exactly happened to Sylvan until halfway through the book, which is really quite wonderful in terms of grief. Teddy, like so many experiencing loss, comes to a slow realization of the gravity of the absence of his loved one; even slower, comes the ability to share the painful parts of that loss. He opens up as he comes to terms with it – and it is through the gentle love and presence of the now dear young friends.
Until We Meet Again, a picture book by Susan Jones, illustrated by Shirley Antak, is told from the perspective of an adorable little boy, made so both by Antak’s rendering and the amazing way he transcends death’s grip on his beloved grandfather. The opening sequence shows the deep bond and ritual of this grandfather/grandson relationship. The boy obviously adores the strong influence of his grandfather. When he first gets news of his grandfather’s eventual demise, he is unsettled, of course, but this midsection of the book sets the stage for the last, when the boy becomes the strong influence. He initiates and continues all of their special traditions, validating his grandfather, cementing their unending bond, and gathering his own strength for life without him.
Both these titles tackle a topic that is usually met with the awkward shrug of a smile, the stammering silence of not knowing what to say. The subject matter is the stuff we try to shield our kids from, not books we willingly hand them. But as with any tough topic, the children dealing with death need them right now.
Ironically, I chose not to share them with my children right now. Perhaps I am being naive in thinking I can protect them from the direct blow of death for just a bit longer, but they’ve yet to be at a funeral. They blessedly haven’t felt the stinging sorrow of a daily hole in their lives. The deaths dealt to our family recently have been on their periphery. But to know I have such gentle and poignant resources in literature should I need them – I’m glad the literary universe conspired to bring them both to me in the same lending cycle.