I can still see her as she barreled in the door on a bright Fall day, ponytails swishing, a jumbled mass of pink, mismatched stripes and costume jewelry.
She was fresh out of school and had sprinted the entire way home without breaking a sweat. As she did every single day, she burst into the house, dropped her backpack and her shoes in a heap in the mud room, and she asked if she could have a snack while she did her homework. She brightly babbled about her day, dug out her first grade worksheet homework and sat down at the kitchen island to get to the business of being seven. Her standard snack of Goldfish crackers in a dish beside her, she quietly focused on her work.
As she scrunched her face and squeezed that yellow pencil tightly in her little hand while diligently doing doing math facts, she suddenly looked up at me and said, “Hey, Mama? Can I FaceTime Poppy while I do my homework?”
Knowing that my father would never pass up an opportunity to chat “face to face” with his only granddaughter, I said that I’d set the iPad up for her, but not before loading the dishwasher, answering two emails and walking to the mailbox for the mail. In fact, I’d almost forgotten her request as the door slammed behind me when she said, “Mommmmmmmmaaaaa, he neeeeds to talk to me today. I can feel it!”. And, so, I begrudgingly got the iPad out, called my Dad and watched from a busied distance as her pony tails swung while she giggled with him. He quizzed her on her math, said silly things to her and as her legs swung under the bar stool upon which she sat, I remember distinctly thinking that technology didn’t suck. She was doing her homework with her grandfather, George Jetsen style, right in my kitchen.
As is usually the case with two small children, I hurried her up. “Gotta go, Dad! Fruit Loop #1 gets off the bus soon. Talk to you later!” and as I clicked the red button to end our interface, my Dad’s face froze in a smile on the iPad. I remember thinking he looked ridiculous.
Later that afternoon, chaos abounded as per our usual on a Wednesday night. Fruit Loop #2 was whiny about dinner. Fruit Loop #1 had to be at a Cub Scout event in an hour and I had barely defrosted something for dinner. Hubby walked in the door with a huge, long, complicated story that, in his mind, demanded my full attention. My house hummed with the sounds of the evening news, my yells for Fruit Loop #1 to get his uniform on and the smells of a half assed, somewhat nutritious meal on the stove. It was a typical Wednesday, nothing out of the ordinary, but something nagged at me.
While I couldn’t put my finger on it just yet, I waited because I knew what was coming. I knew that The Voices were about to speak.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve heard voices that have guided me, helped me, or prepared me for the events in my life. Some call it intuition, others call it clairvoyance and M. Knight Shyamalan famously scared the bejeezus out of all of us with a little boy announcing he could see dead people in The Sixth Sense (seriously, I did NOT see the ending coming with that one…). Whatever the voices are, however they come to me, I would by lying if I didn’t think I was a little half baked sometimes. And, if you stop reading right now because you’ve decided this blogger is certifiably cray cray, I’ll understand. But, the fact is, the voices happen in my head and, I’ve learned to accept them. Or it. Or him. Or her. Whatever or whoever they are, they are a part of my being and they interrupt my world often at the most inopportune times.
And so, on that frenzied night in October, as my house buzzed with the noise of two children, a yappy husband and Brian Williams, The Voices spoke, much to my annoyance.
You should have Fruit Loop #1 FaceTime your Dad.
Stop what you are doing and pick up the iPad.
I tried to shake The Voices off, tried to ignore their persuasive litany in my head. I had to make dinner, for God’s sakes. I wanted to see the story about that hurricane that might be coming. I had to yell at Fruit Loop #1 one. more. time to put on his uniform. I just don’t have time to listen to The Voices, I thought.
Call him. CALL HIM.
Fruit Loop #1 will need this. Do this for him.
I couldn’t shake them, couldn’t make The Voices go away. I finally gave in with a furious rush and, with an irritated haste, I snapped at Fruit Loop #1 to button his shirt and to sit down at the kitchen desk to talk to Poppy. Even Fruit Loop #1 was bewildered, “But, why? We have to leave, I haven’t eaten, I don’t understand, Mama…” But, despite his questions, despite my annoyance that The Voices were wreaking havoc on my evening, the familiar sound of a FaceTime call waiting to connect filled the kitchen.
My Dad’s face filled the screen and I hurriedly told him that Fruit Loop #1 wanted to say hi. I told him I didn’t have time to chat. I told him I’d talk to him soon and rushed off to the stove to deal with the half assed, quasi nutritious meal I was going to shove down everyone’s throats.
As I turned from the stove to the kitchen island, I saw my father smile at my son. I saw Fruit Loop #1 gesturing and throwing his head back in laughter. I have no idea what they talked about and, when I rushed over to hang the call up, I looked at my Dad’s eyes and saw love. saw his smile, heard him say “Love you, too” and watched as his frozen smile faded to black on the screen.
My father died the next day.
As I gently told the Fruit Loops the devastating news, Fruit Loop #2’s head whipped up and her ponytail swished as she shook her head, unable to believe what she was hearing. As the tears started to fall, she looked at me and said, with quiet grace, “Well, I’m so glad I listened to the voice that told me to call him yesterday.”
I am, too, sweetheart. I am, too.
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9 Responses
I am sobbing. That was beautiful. Thank you
Thank you so much for reading my piece, Ryan. Hugs.
As I read this I got chills. The night before my father passed away, he came to me in a dream and gave me some advice or instructions actually. That in itself would be amazing, but the fact that he’d had late stage Alzheimer’s disease and had not had much of a meaningful conversation with me for the past year or so made it even more important to me. He had always been my “Jimmie Cricket” , the devil on my shoulder, (verses my mom as the Pollyanna Angel on the other shoulder) and as my little sister and I would often say, WWJD as in what would Joe David do???? My father always had great insight and seemed at many times clairvoyant. It was uncanny! It was a total bummer many times during my teenage and young adult life. I now accept that I too have his gift, and I Cherish it.
I love that you called him your Jimmie Cricket…that’s adorable! My dad was all those things for me, too…thank you for reading, Jill!
This gave me the goosebumps. I don’t know if you like having the “voice” but this time it was certainly a blessing for you.
This made me cry. I hear that voice too sometimes and I always regret it when I don’t listen. I knew when my father died, I woke in the night and felt and smelled him, I couldn’t go back to sleep. I remember lying in the dark waiting for the sun to come up knowing something was wrong but not what. My mom called a few hours later to tell me he had passed away in the night of a heart attack. I also knew when a family member was sick before anybody told me I saw that he was going to die and it would be devastating to his sister. She called me a week later crying a total wreck and I believe that my knowing ahead of time and the week I spent crying and accepting it helped me to be strong for her when she needed me most. Thank you for sharing its hard in this day and age to share about the “woo woo” you just never know how people will react. It took courage for you to share, thank you
Tears. What a wonderful thing that your children and you spoke with him. I have that voice and it worries me what will come next. Twice that voice saved my mom from her approaching heart attacks and allowed me to go visit my grandfather with my baby hours before he passed. I will never forget the smile he had seeing my infant in cow pj’s. The saddest time for me was the night I sat with my sister and told her and my mom I had a nightmare about a purple coffin and 7 hours later my 18 yr old sister was gone in car crash. Comfort and pain those voices have.
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I have that voice too. I was supposed to go out of town the weekend my daddy died. He’d had a bad week & I decided there was no way I was leaving town. My husband & boys went on & my daughter & I stayed home. We were able to spend some time with him on Saturday. Sunday morning my mom called in a panic saying she had called 911 bc daddy couldn’t breathe. He never got to go home from the hospital.