So. Back to the most relevant and fascinating topic ever discussed: your murder, your death, your mother’s grief. How she works to recover from the "unkindest cut of all."
Look for the window the door the crack the minute hole between matter and anti-matter. Feel with your heart and your soul. Learn to travel with your heart and soul. Accept, receive, stop thinking when possible. Just be. Just breathe. Go to the quiet rather than the noise. She is in the quiet.
She also causes the noise. The noise of weeping. Nah! She laments it too. I mean you do Bekah. I think you do. I think I truly believe you do…your energy your life taken so abruptly and so very rudely makes you strong – and (here is my feeling, nothing I know in fact more what I wish than what I think, but here it is) many souls support you. I don’t mean just those souls who passed before you and who I know. I mean souls like Lars who are attracted to the beauty of yours; I mean the souls of children whose parents have shared their grief with your mother and consequently soothed my transition. And from where you are I fancy or feel that since 09-11-01 you have been quite busy. Forced there by murder once then forced by mass murder into an accelerated program so to speak.
So that’s my fantasy. If I am anywhere close to correct tell my dad and Grandma Blanche I love them. If I am correct – if the psychic Carolyn saw was right – my mother is back here in another incarnation, but if not – tell her too. After twenty-one years I miss her still.
I don’t suppose there is any way at all that I will not continue missing you for the rest of my life. So I will try to find a way to adapt to adjust and keep functioning here. Lord you know Rory deserves it! Maybe even I deserve it. I’ve been so nearly useless since you died. I feel unworthy. If I recall that neither you nor I deserved what your murderer did I feel bitter. If I write I think that something good even possibly useful may be salvaged from the most lamentable, hurtful, violent, senseless occurrence to ever inform my life in any sense, mental, emotional, practical.
And so we return to the catalogue. You are with us, you still love us. I was woken up by a riff from a phantom drum machine the first time I fell asleep after your death. Not long after that on one of my prowls through the wee hours your mother’s day card was suddenly in my hand. I fell out with your pile of clothes all jumbled up in my arms and woke up with your long black sweater draped neatly over me like a blankie. The windshield washers. Lizzy’s door, Paul’s radio, Rory heard laughter and it was not me.
The chills, oh the chills! Did I ever imagine I would crave the chills, love the chills, say, "I love you too," when I was fortunate enough to get the chills? No, not until you died Bekah.
The Pinnacles – your picture. It hurts no one to believe. It helps me to believe. If I can believe you live, it helps me accept that you died. That picture appears to me to defy an easy explanation except that it is you. That I felt you with me out there – waited praying on the pictures – that also serves to convince me further, of something that cannot be proved or disproved as far as I know, but can only be believed or disbelieved.
Your pager going off at 9 a.m. though no living person set it. Ghostly interference on Lizzy’s TV. Joe’s pain in his head the moment you were run over. That poem! Bekah, that poem…whatever I think about that poem I won’t even put down today. It’s impossible. But then it is also impossible for a flame from a candle to jump a foot or more when no breeze moves it. Which is what happened to "the crew" picture. And so carefully not destroying any part of the actual picture. It is impossible for water to start squirting onto a windshield without the mechanism being engaged. Sweaters don’t get up and cover sleeping mothers by themselves. Last night the vacuum cleaner went on twice. Once cats were nearby the second time I was moving it. So I don’t know. Joanna. Now you had never met her so I tend to think that someone else haunted her or perhaps the message is relayed psychically so that you knew immediately and did knock on her wall and turn on the bathroom heater that is never turned on….
My friend from the desert and his relationship to your killer; the flower shop on the day before we buried you. Yeah. Many of these can be easily dismissed by skeptics, except for the windshield washers and the flower shop.
I cannot easily dismiss anything that suggests you are alive although you are dead. My belief in a soul has been steadfast but the details very much in question. That is still true too. Except that I feel that the space, the wall, the divider whatever it may be between living and dead people is breechable. I believe that or I am much closer to believing that than I ever was before you died. If you had not died I don’t think I would have come any closer to this faith than I was previously. It behooves me to believe. If I believe, your loss is confined to this life, this dimension. If I don’t believe (and it is not as easy to believe as you probably think it should be), you are just dead and gone forever.
Still. Considering the experiences of others, considering that most of the above-listed phenomena were not presented to me alone or me at all, and considering that your justice may very well be given a shot in the arm by the fact that your aunt walked into the business of the most important witness’s mother on 07-24-01, it could be a lot harder to believe.
So come see me soon Bekah-la?? :) Better yet let me give my girl great big hug and hear her laugh one more time. Gotta shower, get your flowers, visit your bones, amen
Loving you so much for always, Mom XXXXXX 000000000
© Barbara Bales 2000-2007
all rights reserved
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