I have had three visits from the spirit world.  Some might say they are vague imaginings born of grief and loss.  But I know vague imaginings and these were different.  In each case I had a soul connection with the spirit in question while they were living so it is not so strange that I would connect with them in death.

The first one happened when I was on my first trip to Europe at age 22.  I was off to visit the tiny peasant town where my Grandfather was born.  It was a tiny mountain town in the province of Enna, reachable by train and then a long bus ride up the mountain.  The name,  Valguernera Caropepe.  I was in the train station in Sicily and an old Sicilian man looking very much my Grandfather’s type— short, grey-haired with a warm smile— saw me and started singing the words to Stormy Weather.  I turned to look at him, stunned.  When I was a little girl I spent lots of time with my grandparents in Larchmont.  Grandpa and I were inseparable.  We danced and sang to music on the Victrola or to his mandolin playing by day, had our evening cocktail together in the late afternoon (a Shirley Temple for me, Whiskey Sour for Grandpa and I got his cherry).  And, at nights in summer, we went for walks catching fireflies, or sat together in the bedroom, each at our own window,  in the silence of our thoughts, watching the neighbors in the courtyard below.   Even as a little girl, I could feel that there was something special about the quiet we shared and that we were always connected.  Physically, emotionally, and I like to think, spiritually.  I took his death very hard.  About Stormy Weather— whenever I walked into the living room where Grandpa was inevitably to be found smoking a pipe or reading, he would sing: “Here Comes Stormy Weather.”  I looked into the smiling eyes of this man in the Sicilian train station as he sang the lyrics of the song Grandpa used to greet me with and I saw Grandpa for a few seconds.  And then I had to leave to catch the train to his town.

The second time I had a brush with the spirit world was when my father died.  Dad had been sick for three years battling colon cancer.  The end was near and I visited but had just taken a new job so was not at the hospital every day as, had I been stronger emotionally, I would have liked to have been.  Again Dad and I were very close.  Not like Grandpa.  But in temperament and looks.  My father married a Sicilian and I was the only one of the three children who looked like him with blond hair and light skin.  And I was shy and quiet and liked writing and music like Dad did and I didn’t like the screaming and yelling that was much a part of our family life.  Dad didn’t either.  My sister was “Daddy’s little girl” but Dad and I were sympatico.

A few days before Dad died he went into something like a coma.  His eyes were closed and he was mostly unresponsive.  My Mom in an effort to get a response,  teased him (Dad was the tease in the family) one warm November day, one last time, and told him it was snowing outside.  (It wasn’t.)  Dad’s eyes fluttered and he opened them and looked out the window and presumably saw it was not snowing.  A few days later Dad died.  I was at work in the ladies room at the time.  I remember the exact moment.  I just suddenly knew Dad had died.  I went back to the office.  As I walked in the phone call came.  I had the moment right to the minute.  I called my fiancé to pick me up and go to the hospital and see Dad before they took his body away.  And then I stood on the street corner waiting for him, frantic with grief and stunned despite all the time we had to “prepare” for Dad’s death.  Suddenly I felt a brush of a breeze pass through me on the corner.  Dad’s spirit.  No mistaking it.   And then it began to snow.  The snow only lasted a few minutes.  A sign.  Dad, the tease, got back at my mother who had told him it was snowing when it wasn’t. I later relayed this message to Mom who hadn’t seen the snow.

I didn’t get a message when my Mother died.  My husband and I had been her main caretakers and it had taken a terrible toll on us. He and I had done some fancy footwork to grant her last wish— we had gotten her home so she could die in her own home. My brother and his wife had just flown in from Michigan and my brother was the apple of her eye. Shortly after they came, she yelled at me for touching the controls on her hospital bed. I said nothing and left the room and my husband and I went home. That was my last visit with her. She died that night. We went back at 2AM to see her body before they took her away.  And though I didn’t get a message from Mom when she died, I’ve got her inside of me.  Today even clearer than when she was alive, I hear her telling me how to handle the problems of life.  (I still don’t always listen.) And, we inherited my Mom’s ten-year old dog— a miniature poodle, named Ko-ko. 

Ko-ko came to live with my husband and me and we loved her to pieces in our childless marriage.  We never expected her to survive losing Mom (especially after having lost Dad a few years before) and losing her home, but she adjusted.  When she lost an eye to my aunt’s cat we again never expected her to pull through, but she survived.  She drank up love like a parched plant and we were only too happy to give it to her.  And then she developed Cushing’s disease and a cataract in her good eye, arthritis and a bad heart—  but she kept on going with the spirit of a puppy.  I almost believed she would live forever— even when she was diagnosed with cancer.  But she didn’t.  And in October, her 17 and ½ years came to a close.  She had an appetite up until the last— eating dinner the night she died.  Ironically it was a stroke or something she ate that impaired her breathing.  It was too late to go to our vet.  We decided to take her in first thing in the morning to be put down by the vet she knew and felt comfortable with.  I stayed up through the night with her trying to help her make the transition but she clung to life.  And in the morning we brought her in to be put to sleep.  Our tears were joined by a tear streaming down Dr. Howell’s face.  I think he had begun to believe in her immortality, too.  He gave her the shot.  She reared up a moment and then was gone.  We had made plans to meet my aunt and uncle that day.  We could not break the date—  it was too late to even call.  They were coming from Connecticut.   I just couldn’t go.  My husband, God bless him, went to meet them.  I went home to rest a bit and then meet them later. At home, on the bed, doing Reiki, an ancient Tibetan form of energy healing, on myself, my eyes were closed but I was wide awake.  And I “saw” Ko-ko.  She was running in a white field filled with white flowers and then going towards a tunnel.  I was with her at her eye level close to the ground and all around was pure white and she was very happy and excited.  Probably running to be reunited with my parents.  And I felt profoundly blessed by her presence as I did in life, for she had a beautiful soul.  Instead of visiting us in spirit, my mother left us an angel.

I have longed for further contact with these three souls and with my Mom but the longing goes unfulfilled like so many desires in life. I am indeed lucky to have had these three visits.  They are high up on the list of treasures in my life, whispering of a life beyond this one.  Treasures too ephemeral for touch, locked away in the depths of my soul. 

Welcome to samples of my work in various art forms showcasing “Eye-locks and Other Fearsome Things.”  “Eye-locks” is a Bipolar/Asperger’s memoir in narrative form that describes the triumph of love over mental illness.