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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