You said you would turn off a particular bulb on the solar lights. I did check. But then that night as I walked into the bedroom to prepare for bed, there was Nana’s stone. I have taken over your side of the bed – it feels right, and healing – and placed the stone I held during your passing, in between two coasters. Of course the coasters sit parallel to one another, and the stone holds just the right spot in between. You know how I am about details.
When I walked into the room and toward the bed, there lay the stone. It was equidistant between the dresser I bought from the money Nana left me, and the spot where just the day before I had helped you pass. Moving a stone is certainly more fitting of you, and I am sure Nana was in on it as she likes to prompt me on the realignment of things such as photos and rocks. For three days prior to your passing, my wee girl’s RIP Worm 2012 rock was repeatedly out of line on the shelf near the front entrance. So the two of you heaved that small stone onto the floor. Nice work. I get it. You were here.
And then there was that stinkbug. I didn’t know the type of bug until I posted a picture on Instagram and a gardening friend warned me it was invasive, and not to let it inside. There was a laugh. If you were a bug, you would certainly have such a brilliant browny-red pattern, and saucy antennae. And no, I didn’t let you inside; you didn’t seem interested. Leapt to the ground and that was the last I saw of you.
The other night there was a shadow, like an incomplete heart, formed by the light of the lamp cast over the dingy water glass I keep filling for you each night and emptying in the morning. Today I washed it, and will bring it back into regular circulation. One more prompt for you to keep passing, after caring for you a little big longer.
And you were at dinner with us the day you died, weren’t you? It was the first time I felt that warm, pleasant rush from the base of my back. Then your energy smiled at me from the empty chair beside your father. Moved behind me and massaged my neck for a moment. Placed your elbows on my shoulders and peeked around the right side of my head. Meandered off.
I thought the warm rush was an inversion of the pain you felt each day, that rooted in your lower back and moved upwards as the cancer spread into your lungs. it was an a-ha moment, as I had felt Nana in between my lungs for six days after she died of congestive heart failure. But its been pointed out to me that my back was my last point of contact with you. I’ve also been told that some of us are more porous than others, when it comes to energy. So I’m not crazy then? Because I’m not being quiet about it . . .