A little
boy came downstairs crying late one
night.
„What’s wrong?“ asked his mother.
„Do people really come
from dust, like they said in church?“ he
sobbed.
„In a way they
do,“ said his mother.
„And when they die so they turn back to
dust?“
„Yes, they do.“
The little boy began to cry again. „Well,
under my bed there’s
someone either coming or going.“
