Do you believe in angels, reincarnation, the spirit world, ghosts, aliens? This was written for Patti Roberts in response to a request for stories such as the following.
Patti is @PattiRoberts7 on Twitter. Here is a link to her ebook where this post first appeared: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/95524
I knew when my Grandfather died. I’ve no idea how I knew, but I did. The first I knew of it was waking up one morning in my bed at home, with hot tears rolling down my face. I was fifteen years old. I don’t remember the dream that I must have had, but I knew with a certainty, as sure as I know I am sitting here now, that my Grandfather had died. There was simply no question that I was mistaken. It was a school day, so I got out of bed, dressed for school, and prepared myself for my mother to give me the news. But it never came.
I was puzzled, but told myself that maybe she herself hadn’t yet been informed. My Grandfather was my Dad’s Dad, and as my father no longer lived with us, maybe the news hadn’t yet been passed on. So I went to school, telling my best friend what had happened on the way, and preparing myself to be told when I returned home. But again, it never happened.
So a few days passed, and I told myself that maybe I had been wrong, or that it was a particularly vivid dream that had upset me more than I realised. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. But it was like telling myself that I didn’t live in my house or didn’t attend the school I went to; it just didn’t make sense and I couldn’t reconcile my absolute certainty to the fact that no concrete information was coming my way. I just couldn’t understand it. So a few more days passed but instead of forgetting what I knew, it grew in my mind and became even more important. Clearly the adults around me were not going to keep me informed, so I had to take matters into my own hands.
One afternoon, after school, I asked my sister to come with me for a bike ride round to my father’s house. It was more usual to see him at weekends every now and then, so an unannounced weekday visit was out of the ordinary. But I contrived the visit with only one objective in mind: to provide him with the opportunity to tell me that my Grandfather had died. So we cycled round to his house.
As it happened, my father didn’t tell us what had happened, his wife did. Dad took himself off into the garden, and his wife told us that Grandfather had died two weeks before. My sister, younger than me, cried at the news, but I’d already had a fortnight to digest it and, along with my profound and slightly bizarre sense of relief that I was correct, I was more concerned with why we hadn’t been told before. We’d missed the funeral and had no opportunity to say goodbye to our Grandfather. It was a difficult time, but I never raised it with my father as he was clearly so upset he couldn’t even tell us himself.
I often wonder, though, how long it would have been before we discovered the news if I hadn’t been proactive and gone in search of confirmation of what I already knew. I’ve discussed this with only a few people over the years, and the general consensus of opinion is that Grandfather and I must have been close and that his spirit is with me. A guardian angel, if you like. Whenever I’m in a church or cathedral, I always light a candle for him.