Skype is dying.

I don’t mean the video communication technology—though that may very well be on its way out, too—but my 7-year-old son’s betta fish, who’s lived in a plastic bowl on his nightstand for three years. (Why he decided to name him after said technology remains a mystery I haven’t bothered to probe.) Once a vibrant, puckish swimmer and ravenous eater, Skype has been laying listlessly among his plastic plant fronds and refusing food for the past week. Once a brilliant sea green, his scales are now a dull, sad brown.

On the spectrum of loss, I realize that losing a pet fish might seem insignificant, but not to my little guy. This son, who resembles a golden retriever in look and behavior himself, loves animals—all kinds—and will spend days tending to slimy snails he found in the pond near our house. I’ve resisted getting him a furry pet until he and his brothers are older, so Skype is and has been the recipient of all the attention and affection that can possibly be bestowed on a two-inch long, cold blooded creature whose species nickname is “Siamese Fighting Fish.”

For the past several mornings, my son has checked on Skype as soon as he woke up. “He’s still alive!” he’ll say triumphantly. But I know the morning is coming very soon when he will pad down to the kitchen, his big eyes (sea-green like Skype’s) welling with tears.

City Dog, Country Frog by Mo Willems and Jon Muth.

There’s been one big comfort to him through all this, and it’s not the promise of a replacement fish or something bigger and cuddlier when the time comes. It’s two books I found at the library. We’ve been reading them all week.

The first is City Dog, Country Frog, a joint project by two of favorite children’s author-illustrators, Mo Willems and Jon Muth. Compared to many of Willems’ and Muth’s other works (like the Pigeon series, or Zen Shorts series), this book isn’t exactly a hold-shelf shelf staple, probably because it deals with dying. But it does so gently, and hopefully. Set against the backdrop of the changing seasons, it explores a friendship between an energetic puppy and a wise frog. The animals play together in the spring and rest in the fall (frog is tired). In the winter, the dog has to confront the idea of loss when frog is nowhere to be found. But when spring comes ’round again, so does a new frog friend, and the circle of life and friendship continues.

Sally Goes to Heaven by Stephen Huneck

The second is Sally Goes to Heaven. Unlike City Dog, Country Frog, it dances not at all around the idea of death. And yet I can’t imagine a book that could provide greater comfort to a young child who realizes that he or she will never see a loved one again. Sally, celebrated in a series of books by the late, great author, dog-lover and woodcut artist Stephen Huneck, is tired. She has trouble getting up to greet her owner when he arrives home, and isn’t hungry. “The next morning,” young readers learn, “Sally went to heaven.” The next several pages are devoted to Sally’s wonderful afterlife, where she discovers, among other delights, a giant pile of dirty socks she can play in all day long. She also meets wonderful new friends. Toward the end, the author shares that Sally’s one wish is that her owners will find a new animal friend to love, too. And the last page is the most poignant: “Shhh,” it reads. “Sally is dreaming.” If you or your child are still unsure what your own idea of heaven is, that page leaves an open door to interpretation on just how Sally is experiencing life after death. But it leaves no doubt she’s at peace.

My son looked up at me after we finished Sally Goes to Heaven the second or third time. “I hope that happens to Skype,” he said, his voice breaking. He laid his curly head on my shoulder for a moment. Then he wiped his eyes and went out to ride his bike.

Every time my children learn about something painful in the world beyond a skinned knee or lost toy, my heart breaks just a little. My older son also had to confront death this year, through the loss of two schoolmates’ parents. And yet, I don’t want to shy away from discussing this topic with them—along with their fears, hopes, and questions. These conversations are painful, but somehow beautiful, too. We are talking about the very essence of life, with a life we have created.

Farewell, our fishy friend. For you, we wish an afterlife filled with lots of food, a tank always filled with fresh, clean water, and another boy who loves you as much as any human possibly could.