Talking to Dead People

A post by contributor Fifi

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Talking to Dead People

 

I've talked to dead people during times when I was really into the idea that this was possible.  Some people I know talk to their departed loved ones every day, as if they're roommates (one a ghostly freeloader who never pays rent).  But there's also been occasional contact when I wasn't looking for it.  Does that prove anything?  Of course not.  But I find the subject interesting, don't you?

 

After my father died, H and I housed his car in our carport in order to show and sell it.  We had two assigned spaces, so our car was parked next to Dad's.  I was getting something out of Dad's car and putting it in ours, waiting for H to come downstairs so we could go wherever it was.

 

I felt H behind me, squeezing the little ring of fat around my waist.  I turned, and no one was there.  Then I remembered.  "Dad, you've got the wrong person," I said aloud.  "That was Mom. You're confusing me with Mom."  When H came down, I told him what happened and asked if he thought dead people got confused about things after they crossed over, maybe forgetting details -- or even people -- connected with the life they'd left behind.  H humored me and pretended to discuss it, for all the world as if he were not secretly storing up proofs of my insanity and that of my whole "psycho" family.  The story made perfect sense to my sister, though.  "Oh yeah, Dad knows that you know about him squeezing Mom's waist. He did it so you could be sure it was him."  I do hope that was true.

Dad also appeared in dreams frequently during that time.  In life, my father was angry, disappointed, and often mean.  It took me a long time to understand why.  Anyway, in my dreams, he was completely at ease, relaxed, and cheerful.  We talked together, perching like spider-people on the sides of red-brick buildings, or on rooftops way high above New York City, and I became convinced it was really him, that he had completely shed his former life and reverted to pure spirit, serene, wise, and wryly accepting of his mistakes, and mine too.  I was just happy he wanted to hang out with me.  And the idea that this life, with all its sorrows, illness, and suffering, could be sluffed off like a paper wrapper, leaving the spirit free to soar -- what an intriguing thing to contemplate!

 

"My Wish" by Rascal Flatts was his song to me after he died.  Nope, can't prove it in a court of law.  I just knew, the first time I heard it.

 

It's been 10 years; Dad's visits gradually ceased.  I don't try to conjure him, or anybody, these days.  But on Father's Day I was sitting in church, and suddenly, there he was.  A feeling of intense happiness washed over me.  After a minute or two of bliss, I didn't feel him any more.

 

All emotions are fleeting and cyclical, but -- have you noticed? -- bliss has a much shorter shelf life than despair.  Can anyone tell me why that is?

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