ghosts

will

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When Will was seventeen, he was in bed with another boy for the very first time in his life. It was the 1950s, and homosexuality was absolutely not an option in his family. So when his father opened the door and discovered his son tangled up naked, it was a horrifying and humiliating disaster.

His father simply closed the door without a word, and it left Will in a state of total and utter panic. He tiptoed around the house in hysteria for days, waiting for the beating that surely awaited him.

Instead, a week or so later, his father took him into the woods under the guise of going hunting. They walked deep into the forest, and he shot his son in the back of the head. Will’s body was never found.

Will was the ghost that haunted my childhood home, as far back as I can honestly remember. He would chase me through the house in the night, appearing in my mind as a monster with teeth that chewed constantly the back of my neck. He was the first ghost I successfully put up boundaries against- he wasn’t allowed in my bedroom, and as soon as I could slam my door shut, he’d disappear.

Except for the night, way back in 2003, when I suddenly felt a presence in my room. I thought it was “Alex,” because I had just had a dream about him a few nights prior, and I was surrounded by people who were actively speaking to him either in meditation or through Ouija boards. I was so desperate to be included in this very exclusive Cool Kids Club.

“Alex?” I asked out loud, and a green flash streaked right in front of my eyes in the candlelit semi-dark. I gasped, and then watched with my own eyes as the edge of my bed lowered, as if someone had sat down on it.

Most supernatural things are both exhilarating and literally bone-chilling. When people tell me ghost stories that are true, it always makes my throat close and my eyes well up with tears. If you know, you know. Seeing my mattress shift on its own made me instantly start to cry and feel as if I might throw up, all at once.

Will is the first person we ever spoke to on the Ouija board, and actually the person who demanded that we speak every single night at midnight. If we didn’t, he would shove papers off desks onto the floor, make my personal items go missing, or poke us in the ribs all night as we tried to sleep.

Will, Alex, and my now ex-husband (but then fiancé) were a very close group for several years. With Alex’s guidance and support, Will decided he wanted to finally transition to the Other Side. We were told that because of the trouble he had caused (he haunted the FUCK out of people, not just my family- he used to come on the board and regale us with horrible and hilarious stories of how he’d ruined someone’s night… he especially loved unfortunate souls on too much acid), he had to put in all of this extra work to essentially repay his debt. Alex, in his bid to be a better person, helped to orchestrate his healing.

Will transitioned over right at the same time that things with Alex and I were getting very intense, so I don’t think I paid the correct amount of attention to how different he suddenly became. Will and my ex were also much closer, probably because of how close Alex and I were, so maybe I didn’t care? My ex and Will were entwined, which allowed Alex and I to surreptitiously strengthen our bond. Alex always just said Will was off exploring, because this was his first life, and therefore first opportunity to come Home. I had no reason not to believe that.

How did Will feel coming to the Other Side, seeing the Entire Truth? He was led- like my ex and I were- to believe that this was all new and fresh to us all. To get Home and realize that Alex and I already knew each other for centuries and centuries, and this was all some huge elaborate dance? That Alex was, in fact, a high-ranking demon trying (and failing) to make amends?

Will must have felt so blindsided. This precious boy who was both seventeen and well into his sixties, trapped in a liminal space where he was both so old and also just a baby. Murdered by his own father, left to rot to dust in the forest. Alex as a surrogate father, who then turns out to be a rapist and murderer.

In late summer of 2005, Alex had come to visit through my ex and as we cuddled in an afterglow, Alex suddenly gasped in panic.

“Will is here,” he said in a low, flat voice. “He is very upset.” Then he (inside my ex’s body, of course) began to hyperventilate and shiver. I wrapped my arms around him and wept, begging him to stay, but Will got through and shoved me violently off of him.

“Alex lied to me,” he growled. “He said he was coming here to talk and clear things up and you fucked?” He shook his head. “You two are disgusting. You’re a married woman. You should be ashamed.”

When I tried to explain that I was confused too, that it was complicated, that the three of us had figured out a way to make it work, he got even angrier.

“You know,” he said, “I had three really great friends. And now I have none.”

A year later, after Alex raped me, Will was the first person I told. I think he saved my life, because I’m almost sure he’s the one who then raised an alarm to bring everyone else’s attention to the situation. He was perhaps the first person who realized that Alex was quickly backsliding into extremely dangerous ground.

Suddenly, there were a ton of dead people appearing to me in meditation, and everyone had input or an opinion on what I needed to do to move forward. This was the period of my life when there were so many voices that I felt like I genuinely might be schizophrenic. At that point, the idea that I had completely lost my mind was actually preferable to the reality, and at that point, I didn’t even remember what had really happened.

I was reading about when Jim first started to come visit me, when he first became my “guardian,” so to speak. We were the last two people left who would be around Alex on any level.

As I read this condensed version of my journals that I found, where I’m trying to shape it into a fictional story, I actually had to edit and rewrite the historical events because they’re honestly too sick to believe.

Now I see everyone else’s horror at my behavior. I was so completely bound to him, constantly allowing him access to me even though he did literally nothing but betray and assault me at every single opportunity.

He raped me at least four or five times that I actually remember, but it was probably on the scale of dozens, and at least once it was so violent it caused people to have full emotional breakdowns witnessing the replay I’d cursed the beach house with.

And I just kept forgiving him. And not just forgiving him, falling back in love with him. And I know that is illness, it is abuse, it is trauma, and largely it was also terror, too. But speaking with Hermie… it was also a calculated war strategy? I can’t understand.

I gave myself up to pillaged, my whole body just a small town to be incinerated and leveled…. all just to show a demon he was a demon? What the fuck was the purpose of that?

Last night, I spoke to Jim and said, “Do you think he was right when he said he ruined me for anyone else?”

His head dipped briefly to one side as he contemplated. “I think honestly, that it is entirely up to you. I think in a lot of ways that that’s what he hopes, because he never wants anyone to get to you. And I think it gives you an excuse to not let anyone in, either.”

His feline shaped eyes swept over my face. “How could it be possible that you’re ruined forever? I refuse to believe that.”

I am constantly receiving messages from the Universe that I need to slow down, sit in my sickness, peel it open and examine the wound. I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know what I hoped to gain from going to see Alex, but it certainly didn’t help me at all. Nothing about being near him is good for me, because it reignites my sickness for him. I am addicted to his poison, and I have been since before time was time.

My reaction to someone else in my “real” life shows me that I am unwell. I am unbalanced. I have a festering, burning hot wound just under the surface of my skin.

Can I fix it? How?

I have to believe I deserve to be loved softly.

rules to avoid seeing ghosts

/ thehourofthedead / 1 Comment

/// do not look down long hallways, especially if they have a mirror at the end of them

/// close your eyes as you turn lights on or off in rooms, just for a moment – they come in the betweenplace of light and dark

/// never look too long in a mirror, and never in large rooms with lots of shadows. the longer you stare, the harder it is to look away

/// keep ambient noise playing at all times to avoid or explain any shuffling or shifting in other rooms

/// don’t go into the basement or attic alone, ever. if you must go, speak out loud to yourself to keep from getting lost in the silence

/// leave as few reflective surfaces open as possible. any distortion, any vaguely lit shadowy surface is a place for them to show up

/// be settled by midnight and be asleep by 3am, or you might as well stay up until four. they will come for you in the Grey Place between awake and asleep during The Dead Hour

/// acknowledge them out loud if necessary. we share this space, but in this life and time, it is mine. please do not make this difficult for both of us. I see you. I hear you. give me space and grace.

/// do not sage/smoke cleanse if you do not know what you are doing because you will make it worse

/// do not taunt, tempt, or ridicule them. you will lose.

/// if you are very afraid, Hail Mary and Our Father are the strongest protection words can offer. you do not have to be religious. it might work better if you’re not.

/// if you used to know the words but find you cannot speak them in the dark, you are in terrible trouble. I can help you. I know the terror of 3am like few people on earth, and you need immediate help.

/// I believe you. you don’t have to convince me. I don’t think it’s weird. it’s not embarrassing. it’s real, and what is happening is real, and you deserve to be validated and acknowledged. if I can do nothing else, I can help keep other people safe from a thing that nearly devoured me. literally.

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I talk to “myself” all the time in my own home, and hell- even sometimes at work. Sometimes I’m talking out loud to someone I need to work things through with, sometimes it’s self-therapy, and sometimes I’m talking to the dead.

What I forgot about my friend’s house- what I always forget- is the moment I walk in the door, I am unable to speak out loud. I feel intensely that someone is listening. Someone that I don’t want to hear me.

I have learned from my previous stays to leave the kitchen lights on and to close the door to the spare bedroom until I’m ready for bed, but I’d forgotten about how intense the constant, low-grade panic really is. I used to think it was just the vibe between my friend and his wife until the first time I stayed there alone.

Nope. It’s the house.

When I say that the first night I was there I almost had to leave?

As soon as I got into bed, I blurred right into this incredibly vivid meditation. I thought about my apartment from 2013-2016, and instantly, I was there. I remembered every part of it- how it smelled at night, the way the kitchen floor felt on my bare feet, how it looked with just the undercabinet lights on, the weirdness of the stairs. All of it, as if I was actually really there.

It was so real it actually frightened me. I had to open my eyes to wash it away.

Also- lately when I go into meditation, I find the same person waiting for me, someone I usually am not really allowed to see this often. I am getting increasingly suspicious of it, and when I asked him about it the other night, he got the kind of evasively sheepish that I know entirely too well.

In March, I drove to the very end of the mainland of the Outer Banks, then walked the two-ish miles to the point. It looked almost exactly like the stretch of beach in my meditation, once I conjured up seventeen years ago. I broke down sobbing, my entire body lighting up with electricity.

Anyway, that’s where we go most nights. The more intensely I could see the beach, and see my old friend, the more intensely I could feel the ghost in the corner of the bedroom. He was standing half in the closet, staring right at me. It’s been so long since I’ve felt that kind of violent fury of my presence.

“Dude, I want to be sleeping in my own bed right now,” I even said out loud, into the dark. “Trust me. I don’t want to be here either. Just let me sleep.”

The moment I would slide back into being able to feel my feet on the cool sand, the warmth of his fingers twined with mine, the way I feel when he locks his eyes on me, I’d immediately be washed over with terror, panic, sickness. Smoldering resentment. Behind my eyes, I’d see the shadow running full speed across the room to leap at my bed.

“You see?” said my friend. “The more you dissolve the veil, the more you are forced to be seen. Are you sure you’re ready for this feeling again?”

I wish I could say it was easy to feel that intense visibility again, the terror and power of being able to see through the veil, but… it never gets easier. It’s deeply and profoundly terrifying, and also enormously empowering as well.

I (finally) binged the final season of The Good Place today, and once again, it was the exact right moment to see it. They got it absolutely right, ya’ll. More people who know the Universe.

Turns out, I think there’s a lot of us here right now.

And I’m just going to keep hanging onto that.

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I do my best meditation in the hours between when it is very late and when it is very early, just at the edges of dawn.

Likewise, my favorite version of the beach house is at the moment where the sun is turning the horizon dusky rose and stonewashed denim, and the sea is a glittering sapphire. When the day is still just a hopeful promise.

I’ve been meditating with purpose for seventeen years, so landscapes roll out for me without trouble. I remember the days when just trying to keep things stable was an almost impossible task, when the ground would dissolve under me, when everything would go dark or tinny, like it was painted over with sloppy watercolors. Everything slightly metallic, the shades of dreams and nightmares.

Hearing [redacted] speak took six months of work, or maybe more, and it never really clicked in until he and I started sleeping together. I’ve also been thinking about the years when everyone was talking to me- how much work it was to discern between each individual voice… and also my own inner voice… and also, the Voice of the Universe.

Then how much work I had to do to block nearly all of it out.

Then spending the last four years letting it all back in again. Safely.

…I’m still working on that part.

///

Physical touch over there is hard to explain. It isn’t really like being touched, but it’s not exactly like the memory of being touched either. It is very real, but in a place that exists in a new part of your brain, one that a fully rational mind doesn’t access.

All things that involve the dead are strongest in the soft place between awake and asleep.

I’ve said it before, but it does feel unfair that I insinuate not having intimacy when I spent the entire morning laying in bed at my beach house talking to someone I am deeply in love with as he kissed my shoulders and back and ears and cheeks and mouth like my skin was water.

Intimacy without expectation is a real revelation for me.

///

I was looking for a specific moment in my private journals and ended up reading almost three entire journals from my senior year of college, when things with [redacted] were very intense.

Fifteen years ago, I said out loud to myself several times.

One of the things that is constant confirmation to me is seeing things he said to me back then and feeling the truth in them now. I laugh bitterly when I read some of the entries, even though I’ve read them all at least ten times. Somehow, the shock and disgust is always brand new.

He told me exactly who he was, and I refused to believe it. There was every sign imaginable that he was a monster, and I thought I just knew him better than everyone else. I had the most grace and forgiveness and love, more than every other person who had given up on him.

Talk about an unreliable narrator. Oh, kiddo. Oh, honey. Oh, my love.

I have no idea who should get these journals when I’m gone. It’s the only thing I ponder over. The rest of it? I could care less. Take whatever you want.

I just don’t know who should have to carry this burden. It almost feels unfair to give it to anyone else. But to see these words fall into a landfill, unread?

Oh, dear.

///

“I just feel like I should be doing more,” I said. “Service work or soul work or…”

My oldest lover lifted a hand and gestured around the room. “You have your beach house back, after more than ten years. Do not discount that. You can always do more, absolutely, but don’t dismiss the work you’ve already done so far.”

My tarot cards keep telling me that I’m doing a great job, that I am handling my business, that I am strong and powerful and I need to keep walking this path. That’s all well and good, but as always, I circle back to the same question.

What now? What next?

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So last night when I got sucked into an “Alex” hole and was picking my way through his discography, his voice blew out my speakers. That’s never happened before, and was fixed by a restart. However, in the interim, his voice became distorted and- let’s just say it- downright demonic.

I get a lot of displeased faces that invisibly surround me when I decide I’m going to listen to his music, and that sucks because I still really deeply love his music and wish it wasn’t like playing a pungi in front of a cobra. But I know it’s not wise, and that just makes me more indignant.

I can do whatever I want. Don’t try to warn me. Don’t try to be the boss of me.

I can’t really describe what it’s like when the veil between worlds gets sketchy, but I suddenly realized I’d done a foolish thing by listening to his music after midnight, in the dark, in my bed, slightly intoxicated (IMAGINE THAT, says absolutely no one). It’s almost like the sides of my vision rupture slightly, and shadows and tiny flashes of light like sequins on a dress burst all around me. I start hearing things that aren’t real. I start to feel a bit like plastic wrap has been draped over my mouth.

When I was brushing my teeth, rushing myself to bed, an oily little voice appeared in the back of my mind. That voice only has one source, the shadowy little confidence man that may or may not have greasily convinced people to cause trouble since literally the beginning of time. I haven’t heard that voice in at least seven years and immediately had a visceral response. But as always, after a moment or two, I started to get lulled into a kind of sedated confusion, and suddenly, my triumvirate protection system appeared.

Before I could say anything, they each sat on an edge of my mattress and said, “Just go to sleep. Go to sleep. Now. Go to sleep.”

This morning, I decided I should listen to him some more, because this is what I do, and also watched an interview with him I’d never seen before. Every time he looked into the camera I felt like I’d been pierced with a knife, but I think his eyes do that to everyone. His speaking voice also has the strangest effect on me. It’s not the same as the oily voice I heard last night, but it still brings out such interesting reactions from deep in my rib cage. Certain inflections and phrases, ways he flips his hands or twists his mouth…

I think I want to believe that there is a separation somewhere, that the man I loved and the one that tried to kill me are not the same. Is that Stockholm Syndrome? I don’t know. Is that the part of me that still loves him and is still actively trying to rehabilitate him? I guess we’ll find out.

Oh, I know it doesn’t matter, and maybe it’s not even real, but I forget sometimes how close I am to trouble, and no matter what anyone else believes, I have to protect myself at all times.

It’s never over.

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Q: any advice on how to haunt someone after death? Like say you met with foul play and either want to haunt the perp or point someone to a clue. (sorry if you’ve covered this)

I… don’t recommend that you do this.

In order to “haunt,” you have to not cross, which means being a ghost, which means being trapped between alive and dead, filled with longing for Home but with no idea how to get there.  Bound by the agonies of your life, without a concrete form in which to resolve them.

I have the deepest sympathy for ghosts- it’s a horrible sickness, and the longer you’re a ghost the harder it is for you to understand how to go Home.  You never, ever want to be a ghost.  Child ghosts are a shattering tragedy to me.  Poor lost babies, wandering the world invisible and alone.

Trust in the Universe making things right, because it will.  You never need to seek revenge or harm another, because that person will receive a bill for their actions.  If you take vengeance into your own hands, you turn that ugly energy at yourself, and you now adopt their debt.

If this is hypothetical and you’re saying, “Okay if I was murdered, how would I direct the person to my killer?” Well that’s hard, because mediums that report crimes are very rarely believed.  And again, if you crossed, you’d immediately lose your need for revenge.  The only way to hold onto that energy would be to not cross, and therefore be trapped in a much deeper hell than some foolish person would be worth.

That’s the great irony, I guess.  As a ghost, you have the desire for revenge but no way to execute it, and as an unliving person (someone who has crossed over) you have ways to help people put things together but no desire to see a resolution to a matter that no longer matters.

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Q:  you mention mediums here, and i’m wondering how you feel about mediums, and whether you’d consider yourself a sort of one. (sorry if that seems like it should be obvious?)   

I think most are fakes and frauds who prey on people looking for comfort.  I have very little patience for people who claim to be able to speak to the dead for others’ benefit.

I’m also kind of arrogantly firm about certain beliefs I have.  People don’t have to believe me, but I literally dgaf about what anyone else says on the matter.  I know what’s Really True, because I sacrificed/donated seven (eight?) years of my life to it.  I’m not weaving a fantasy, I’m reporting the news.

I also think it’s interesting when people say they believe me as a person who they know and trust, but don’t really believe what I’m saying (and I get that a lot a lot a lot).  I’m not sure how you jive with that level of cognitive dissonance, but that’s for you to sort out, I guess.

…But at the same time, I get that skepticism.  It’s a lot to absorb.  Let me also say people send me messages alllllllll the time about supernatural experiences they’ve had, hoping for help or advice or guidance, so you’re totally not alone, and I’m here for you if you need to get something off your chest.  I believe you.  I don’t judge you.  And you can tell me anything, no matter how weird.

Someone else asked me once if I consider myself a medium and I…. guess?  I mean if anything I really do consider myself a witch, whatever that even means.  It sounds less hokey and less serious, I guess.  I won’t attempt to talk to your family members and I do not have messages for you, other than the general theme I say here always: your family loves you and they want you to find peace with their death.  They’re not as far as you feel like they are, even if you don’t see signs of their presence.  You’re not alone, and when you die you get to go Home no matter what you do, so don’t worry.

I love the dead, and I have a very deep relationship to them.  I think that I’m a channel through which True Things travel.  I do believe that I have healing powers, and that I purposely absorb the suffering of people I care about in order to lighten their load.  The things I say about the dead are given to me more than they are conjured from my memory.

I feel like these are the only real important things that I do, to be honest.

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Q: Why are you cosmically connected to rock stars? Why isn’t it like…Bob from accounting.

 

A: Right?  I know.  Trust me, it bothers me.

My first thought is that it’s to keep me quiet.  Because the minute you mention a famous name, people start to doubt you.  The first time I told the story online, I changed the names of everyone (like I did here), so people would just read the story and not start a “fact-checking session.”  I just needed to get those words out somewhere, to explain what I’d just survived.  Here I did it for legal reasons, because the site is public, searchable, and the last thing I really want is to get snared into a case of slander.

To claim something as crazy as, “Oh I loved this dead guy but also he was a semi-famous musician but also he was a demon,” is like literally the most fucking weird shit anyone can say.  And that’s not even the fucking weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me, so.  It’s very alienating.

But also, maybe it’s like “What Dreams May Come,” where someone comes into my life “dressed” as someone else so I can place a face to the person who has come into my life to help me.  I thought about it obsessively when things with “Alex” first ended, when I wanted to convince myself I was insane.  When believing I’d had a dip into pure psychosis was better than what really happened.

I mean maybe it was never Alex, you know?  Whoever he is is someone that is really, really good at mimicry, so.  I mean there’s a great chance it was only ever a demon, and never Alex at all.  To be honest, that answer hurts so much I can’t think about it being true.  I’ll just wait until I die to find that out, when it won’t matter as much anymore.  It will make watching his soul be destroyed a truly magnificent moment.

But there was a time I really loved him, you know?  There’s a photo series that keeps coming up on another social media site I frequent where he is flirting with whoever is taking his picture and his eyes are dark and mischievous and his smirking mouth makes my heart like a pebble skipping across clear water.  And I just.  I just.

In the early days, we asked Alex if he knew any famous people.  He said that being “famous” is kind of a …. joke over there.  Like it’s something you get teased for.  People only really ever identify you as that person, for better or worse.  So when you’ve had a Really Famous life, you have experiences here AND there that no one else really understands, which creates a little… group.  Clique?

Anyway, he said yeah, of course he knew people who are recently dead and famous musicians.  He had a little crew of people he talked to a lot, people we also occasionally talked to (more often whenever Alex became sick and they started to intervene to warn us that he was waaaayyy more ill than we knew).

I honestly think the fact that I know other musicians is really only coincidental, not that I have some kind of cosmic tie to them.  Actually, one of them hasn’t been friends with Alex in a long, long time (pre-Alex) and is only really my friend.  Also I, interestingly enough, am not a fan of his music from this life, though others are.  So I mean…

tl;dr: maybe I am, maybe I’m not.

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Q: What was your scariest supernatural experience?

A: There are a few that I can think of immediately.

One night, the shadows on the bedroom wall started moving at the corners of my eyes and I kept hearing whispering and footsteps, so I sat up in bed with my hand pressed over my heart, my eyes darting around so I would stop having a “corner” of my eye, panting in terror. Just then, my cat pushed the door open, and when it creaked loudly, I screamed my husband awake.

Another night, I somehow ended up sitting on the bathroom floor with my face pressed into my knees, waving a wild arm over my head to try to “swat” away everything I could feel swarming over my head, whispering, “Please stop, please stop, please someone save me.” The first time I saw dementors I thought yes… that’s exactly it. That’s exactly what it feels like.

And by far, the scariest one was while my ex and I were split up, about a month before we “banished” “Alex” to the island. We’d lost our home in this mess, and living with my parents. Their house was violently haunted (but now looking back on it, and having slept in my parents’ house since, it wasn’t the house that was haunted at all), and during that time I heard two little girls giggling in the back bedroom in the middle of the night, a man who sat in my father’s chair all night long and stared at me with burning eyes, a cacophony of footsteps on the ceiling all night long, and that one time I got poked in the forehead while holding blankets over my head, so sure of my safety.

But the worst night by far was late late at night, after my parents had gone to bed and while I could hear them both snoring. I heard heavy, ominous footsteps above me slowly cross the living room through the kitchen towards the staircase behind me. I stopped being able to think a coherent thought (which happened a lot back then, honestly) and then I got this image of a withered old woman brokenly crab-crawling down the stairs with blood pouring out of her mouth and eyes over and over and over and over and over again as I sat frozen in terror, silent tears pouring down my face. As soon as I was freed from this horrible cycle of thoughts, I rushed myself into bed so I could be safe in sleep.

That kind of primal terror is so different than any other fear you can feel. It’s why I don’t watch scary movies. I’ve been frightened enough for at least one lifetime. I also think it’s why I still have dreams where I have to say “Hail Mary” and “The Lord’s Prayer” to keep myself safe.

They’re only just behind me, all the time. I’m sure of it.

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Q: What do you think about going years, never feeling connected after a hardcore loss of a loved one .. like zero signs? I feel because I am so open to it (want it) from one person is why it has not/will not happen. Maybe its for a reason.

A: I get this question a LOT from people.

We all want to know our loved ones are with us, and it’s devastating when we feel abandoned.  But this sort of ties into my previous answers.

So imagine you’re someone’s sister/mother/grandmother/daughter/cousin in this life and you die tragically, leaving everyone bereft and heartbroken.  Everyone is calling out to you for a sign, and you can’t wait to reach out to them.

But then you get over to the Other Side and it turns out you have a loved one from another lifetime that’s in trouble.  They’re sick or they’re possessed or they’re in danger.  You have to run to take care of them.  Over There, time is meaningless, so what takes a few moments for you is five, ten, fifteen years for the people you love.

Or maybe you have to bounce back to Earth with someone else you love to help them.  Maybe you get recruited to be someone’s difficult baby.  Maybe you’re trying to reach out but you don’t know how to get through, because your signs aren’t clear enough.  They don’t see you.

I can’t explain why loved ones disappear, especially the ones some of you are looking for most.  I know it’s awful and it hurts, but because I believe in reincarnation, I really believe that once you get to the Other Side, there are SO MANY people who need you, miss you, love you, want to kiss you and be near you that it’s easy for them to get wound up in reunions and realize later that decades have passed down here.  If you can take comfort in anything, it’s that the ones you love are so loved Over There that the people who are happy to see them back Home is a line so long that it’s taking years to get through.

They still love you, but it’s also easy for them to forget the pain because they know you’re coming Home to them someday.

It’s hard for us.  We don’t have that certainty.  We just have the loss.