Every weekend I want to tell my mom something, then I remember she’s dead, and I get frustrated at how unfair that seems. Next, I laugh at how ludicrous I’m being, or think through what I would say to her if I could call her. We definitely wouldn’t talk about my psychic abilities, since my mom either ignored my gift or stared at me like I had three heads. She never asked a question or commented on things I told her, or made any reference to it. Was it the autism spectrum label I attribute to her? Her lack of interest confounds me.
Mom was born one hundred years ago. I loved her dearly, but I’m not sure she knew who I was. She made me play outside when I wanted to read all day. As an adult, she told me over and over to get a real job. She did encourage me when it came to education and taught me to succeed where others might fail, and she loved my children dearly. She hid her fears, and it was only when my dad died that I saw how many things she was afraid to do on her own.
I will always talk to spirits, to friends and family who have died. I will stomp around, pissed off that they aren’t still here. Talking to spirits isn’t as fun as when they had bodies, but dead people do come to me in dreams, and that feels wonderful. I guess it’s the most I can hope for.
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