“When you’re dead, you turn into a snake,” my three-year-old grandson told me the other day as we walked home from school – a walk that takes us by at least one house with an “Ave Maria” plaque at its entrance, stores and restaurants that close on religious holidays, and several houses and businesses with Catholic shrines or statues out front or in yards that we catch glimpses of through gates. 

“Where’d you hear that? People don’t turn into snakes,” I told him.

“Yes they do!”

“No they don’t.”

“Yes they do!” he said with a foot stomp.

“No! They don’t!” I said, trying for authority. 

“Then what do they turn into when they’re dead?”

And, BOOM, just like that, I knew I had stepped somewhere I didn’t want to be. Somewhere murky. Where clear answers require a faith I didn’t have. 

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and the possibility of something more might be enough for me. But three-year-olds want something more tangible, like the popsicle we had stopped at Oxxo to buy and that was now dripping down the front of his shirt as he stood waiting for an answer. 

And, really, I didn’t have a better one than snakes.    

“Well ...,” I finally said, “some people believe they turn into angels.”

He thought about this a while and seemed satisfied.

“I know about angels,” he told me. “They come down and fix toys when they break. Will you fix my toys when you die, Grandma?” 

“I’ll sure try.” 

We walked on for another block, holding hands.

“I’ll be sad when you die, Grandma.”

“Me  too, Flynn.”

Particularly if there’s any truth to that snake thing.