Last weekend, while out with friends, we were talking about spirits, good and bad, and their proximity to us. My friend articulated my lifelong fears in the most personal way – a fear that spirits would latch on to us when we least wanted them to.
I’ve spent my life avoiding horror movies, conversations related to bad spirits, horrible hauntings and other-worldly things. I’ve also always believed in the afterlife, some sort of heaven and hell, the interference of angels when we need them most and a connection with those whom I’ve loved and lost.
A few nights ago in a dream, I was visited by a little boy, a sweet, rambunctious, opinionated, silly, over-the-top, high-strung little boy named Andrew. He was sitting at my kitchen table, no more than four or five years old, with my John and Charlie. The ages were off for each of them. Charlie was older than the other two (though in reality he was years younger), and he was the calmest. I knew it was a dream. I knew that we would lose Andrew, and in his sweet bright face, I saw that he knew it too. Little Andrew, the child man who let me know how he felt whether I asked or not, the little boy who stood up for his friends, stood up for himself and seemed to fear nothing. It was a sweet touchpoint. A sweet visit. A reminder that none of us is too far, too removed, too gone for us to connect.