I enjoyed her visits and our talks. She told me stories. Humorous. Happy. Often sad. She told me her fears, her tears, her hopes, her dreams. Nursed along the bonsai rhododendron next to my grave stone.
Some times, she came for strength. To deal with losses, things not going they way they should. And her mother. The mother whose spirit died the day I did. Her body lasted another 19 years.
I suppose my only “apparitional” self was turning on the basement lights at her mother’s house. She struggled, sometimes, to figure out what I was trying to convey. Asking her to care for her mother; reassure she was doing a good job; to thank her for taking on a task I don’t know if I could have; to ask her to come by.
She thinks of me all the time; sometimes with a smile and a laugh over some craziness, or tears for times that meant a lot to me and to both of us.
I never got the chance to tell her how much I enjoyed those last 8 years. But I think in her memories of those times, she knows.
I hope she knows, some how, too that my choice was never puppies or a child. It was and will continue to be the choice for her.
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In honour of my dad. Last official father’s day: 1990. Sometimes I think he accepted my invitation to come here and live with me. Not by turning lights on, but by bumps in the attic and bangs on the roof. Hey, Dad, happy father’s day 2014. Where ever your “apparitional” self might be.