One morning last week, I saw something that reminded me of my dead mother-in-law Lorraine. She passed away about a year ago. I still cry when I think of her.

I was in the closet collecting laundry when I saw a hint of a greeting card that she gave me years ago.

That’s all it took to get me hurling through time, re-living past moments and re-scripting last conversations.

In general I am so good about letting dying people go. Last week however, I was not so open-hearted about Lorraine’s departure. I was irrational. I was sad and lonely and angry. I re-felt the pain of the loss of her, my mom and my father.

I did not express my turmoil quietly or gracefully.

I scooped up an armful of dirty clothes and wailed through my sorrow. I headed down two flights of stairs toward the washer/dryer in the basement.

From the kitchen, Miles heard me.

He asked what I was doing.

I detoured to him and told him I was crying.

Why? he asked.

I stalled for a second, not sure I was ready to delve into the dead grandma topic.

“Because I’m sad,” was all that I could offer.

“You miss Chippuh, Momma?”

Oh my god, I thought. How closely this kid can read me.

Chipper is our pet cockatiel who died four months ago. Miles speaks only of the yellow bird in relation to his grandmother, and he recites how they live together in heaven. Miles has never brought up the subject of Chipper without being prodded.

To the best of my knowledge, Miles has never used the verb to miss.

My son's timing for dead bird chit chat was striking. Why didn’t he suggest “Boo-boo, Momma?” as he does when he sees me catch my finger in a closing door, or re-acquaint my toe with my bedframe?

To explain Miles's uncharacteristic show of empathy/intuition, I could say that he probably hasn’t seen or heard me weep aloud since the week Chipper died, and therefore associates my tears with yellow birds.

But I’d rather believe he thinks of Grammy and Chipper as one beloved, absent entity. I want to believe he took one look at my forlorn face and read my mind.

But that’s me. I’m pretty good at attributing SuperChild powers to my son.

DISCLAIMER: I am five months pregnant, and all observations I make today and this day forward should not, and can not, be used against me in a court of law.

Just to temper what I relayed regarding Miles’s outstanding empathetic powers, I need to disclose what he said a month ago, when I asked him what we should do with the new baby when we bring it home this summer.

I gave Miles some ideas such as "Give it some milk?" "Kiss it?" "Hug it?"

“Troe it in darbage?” Miles said full smile, lilting his palm toward our kitchen waste receptacle.

Since then I encourage Miles to kiss and wish the fetus good morning and good night on a daily basis.

I think we are making progress.

Today he shoved a small monster truck up my sweater, near the largest swell of my belly, and said it was for the baby.