The Loving Dead
I come from a large family on my dad's side – seven aunts and one uncle, making nine kids, including my dad, on that side in total. For some reason, we seem to be magnets to all sorts of things, some good, some bad. Here are just a few of our many tales.
When Grandpa Dave passed away, there was no shock, no surprise, just sadness. He was diagnosed with lung cancer and given six months to live. Defying all odds, he lived seven years, but towards the end, we all knew he was going, and fast. We said our good-byes, and he passed away knowing he was loved. We could tell he was in pain – not from the cancer, but from the thought of leaving his loved ones behind. He was the type of man who put everyone he loved before himself, and he knew he wouldn't be able to do that for us anymore...
Or could he?
One of my many aunts told me this first story. The night after my Grandpa died, Grandma was sleeping in their bed. She awoke to the feeling of the bed shifting, as if Grandpa was crawling into bed with her one last time. Needless to say, she never slept in that bed or that bedroom ever again.
My second story was told to me by my Aunt C and Aunt T, as we'll call them, to give them privacy. Grandpa Dave lived for quite some time, able to give away all his daughters in marriage and see most of his grandchildren born. A few weeks after he passed and the funeral was held, Aunt C and Aunt T were hanging out at Aunt C's house, sitting on her bed and reminiscing about Grandpa.
They started to talk about how he had written a letter to all nine of his children (in the days where you had the choice of handwriting or using a typewriter), giving them instructions on what to do after he passed – including bringing their mother to all the places he hadn't been able to take her. (This was a long time before he was diagnosed, mind you; he just wanted to make sure that his wife would be taken care of should he die.)
Aunt C said she remembered packing up the letter when she moved to her current house, but couldn't remember unpacking it. Suddenly, Aunt T looked over to Aunt C's nightstand, gasping as she stared at the picture sitting there. It was of Grandpa walking Aunt C down the aisle – but that wasn't what was making her gasp. For the first time, she noticed that he was crying in the photo, something no one had spotted before.
When Aunt T pointed it out to Aunt C, Aunt C noticed a piece of something sticking out from behind the photo in the frame. Aunt C picked it up and unlatched the back, pulling out the letter that Grandpa had written so many years before.
My third story took place when the funeral was being planned. A few of my aunts were at my Aunt W's house, doing the planning. They soon became too distraught to continue, and Aunt T, always the exercise enthusiast, suggested a walk around the block. Most of my aunts stayed behind, pleading bad knees (which is the truth). So Aunt T and Aunt C were the only ones walking, and they started to talk. Aunt T told Aunt C how the number 17, the same as the day Grandpa had died, had been popping up at the oddest times. Just as Aunt T finished telling the story, Aunt C grew pale, pointing to a front yard where two girls were playing softball in their uniforms. One was facing them, her number unseen, but the other had her back to them; her number was 17. Aunt C went straight back to Aunt W's house, but Aunt T was used to it, plus she was too keyed up not to walk. When she came back to the yard, the girls were gone.
My Grandpa, the loving dead, was communicating from beyond the grave.
