I'm no psychic, so I normally don't converse with the dead, but I do think that they try to communicate with us; either through a song, familiar smell, special symbols, or even our thoughts and dreams. So I wasn't too surprised when after my shower, as I stuck a Q-tip in my ear, that I heard my aunt, who was like a mom to me, say my name . . . just like she would have if she was alive and saw me sticking anything bigger than my elbow in my ear. It was just a thought, but it was her. And, of course, I began to cry.
I wish she was here. To see how big the kids are now. To hug them and watch birds with them again. To read my books. To fuss at me when I go outside with a wet head. Just here. But then I have to remind myself that she is here. When I randomly hear that horrible George Jones song that she used to torture me with when I was little, when I smell her, when the kids talk about her, or when I think of her—she's right here.
Love never dies, even though the ones who held that love do. The love we have for them lives within us, so it will linger on as long as we do, in our hearts, our memories, haunting us when we hear their name or a song that makes us think of them. But also reminding us that they will forever be a part of us. They are here, they see us, just like always . . . it's just a different kind of always.
"Just 'cause you converted from one form to another doesn't make you any less of a person. It's like drivin' a car. I can get around better and do a lot more in my car, but I'm the same person whether I'm in it or just walkin'. . . . You've just lost your car, that's all." —Max, from For Always