The week leading up to Mummy’s death, we talked extensively about God, heaven, and the after-life. She joked that she would be ‘zipping all around the world to visit people’ in that unique tone that masked her fear.
I made her promise that if she could, she would visit me. Deep down, I fantasized about a secret relationship that we would establish, where we chatted every night like girlfriends, only that it would be her talking to me from beyond the grave. The potential behind that got me excited.
It was ridiculous, but at the time, it gave me the comfort that I needed to deal with the overwhelming reality of what losing her would mean.
After D-Day came and went, I waited and waited, but not once did she visit me. She didn’t sneak up on me in the middle of the day or claim her stake over my dreams — nothing. Maybe she tried and I was just scared or not ready yet so I didn’t “feel” or “hear” her. Or maybe, there is no afterlife and once you die, that’s it, you’re gone.
Over the years I have become more cynical and have moved from being simply “unsure” to being an atheist. This being said, whenever I meet someone who believes in spirits or has the contact for a medium, my heart beats my brain. I may roll my eyes, but I tend to do so while also simultaneously dialing a number and making an appointment.
$65 or $100 later, I get a message from my mother telling me that she loves me and is there and that she is trying to talk to me, and the medium inevitably reassures me that in the next few days I will indeed get a visit.
It’s the same response every time. Still no visits from my mom.
And, yet, the next time someone tells me about a psychic or medium they’ve met, I will get their number and I will give them my money.