by Tessa Lynne
Vince and Tara were here earlier. We all went to the rec room and spent some time with Ethan. As he and Vince played pool, I pictured our two sons doing so in our home. Vince is very much his father’s son, similar in looks, and he is bright and funny and handsome, of course.
I haven’t described the hospice to you. It is one wing of a super hospital complex, about a hundred beds. The atmosphere is homey and I brought a few books (including my Shakespeare), some photos, and my computer—the field I teach at the college level.
Gibran’s “Song of the Soul” speaks to my mine. I too have felt that our souls are of us yet apart from us, but I haven’t known how to describe it until I read his words. Come to me. Speak to me our language of love that I may kiss the words from your lips.
Quel belle matin—what a beautiful morning! Tell me, my love, is it more blessed to give or to receive? What we share intensifies, deepens … the feelings linger.
Last night, Callie and Kenna told me I am starting to look like a girl. When I questioned that, they said, “at least no more than thirty.” They think it is because I have lost some weight. I am leaving for the gym for a light workout … I couldn’t help but notice the male bodies. The ones I found most attractive were, I am sure, similar to yours. They were muscular, but not too much so, with an appearance of length more than bulk.
Now that I am feeling so well, it is easier to mention that I have had some health issues the last three years. Any physical work, like cooking, pretty much anything, I could do for about ten minutes and then would have to rest for an hour or more. I couldn’t go for even the shortest walk the first few months but can now manage thirty to sixty minutes. My goal is to go mountain hiking again by next summer; recent efforts have ended in defeat and a few tears shed.
Teresa, I want to cry out at the injustice of it all. I am trying hard not to make them angry, for fear I will lose you. I am flesh and blood and so are you. I want you here now—in my bed, in my life. God forgive me, but I can’t help feeling this way. You are so very precious to me. Please hold me, comfort me.
How is it you know when I am hurting? Need I ask? I almost tore this up and started over, but then I realized you know my pain. I am not a sponge that can just keep absorbing everything without hav-ing to be wrung out once in awhile. I have vented my feelings here, for it does me no good to harbor them. I have just felt you near. Tell me you were here; tell me what you said. Help me to believe in us— that you are not some figment of my imagination.
I haven’t been able to sleep. As always, my thoughts are of you. It is frustrating not to know when your letters will come, if I will get one or several at a time. I am going to write in my journal instead … your letters were here. When? How easily my heart takes wing.
Michael, our children have been with us before, the girls in a lifetime in Ireland in the 12th century. We grew old together, both past seventy, not common then. In our life together as Blackfeet, we had eleven children including Vince, the oldest, and the girls. In the moment I first reached you, I knew that your son was mine and my daughters yours.
There is more. I hesitate to tell you this, knowing it will bring heartache. About a year before the girls were born, I had a miscarriage at three months. Zachary said, “The spirit who was to take that life came close to observe you and your marriage. He then chose not to accept that lifetime without Michael as his father. It is rare for a spirit to make such a choice and it requires special permission.” I was always pleased to have had daughters but can so easily imagine having had your son.
In our lifetimes together, I have always been female and you male. Most spirits have a preference that predominates, but all must experience lifetimes as both genders. It is natural and right that you are male to my female. To think of you as my husband gives that word new meaning, richer—so deeply felt it can only come from what we have shared in our past lives.
Your description of the Light appearing to Sally is incredible. It is a basic truth, one I know from my personal experience and now when the Light surrounds us. It helps me to accept what we have together and to have no doubt—in this moment—as to the truth of it.
I will tell you about my strange experience the night Eli spoke to both of us. Shortly before I heard his message, I had an awful pre-monition that you were in danger. I sensed that you were trying to come to me but that the journey would be treacherous. I interpreted it as you attempting to make your way here. As much as I needed and wanted you to come, I feared for your safety. I hesitated to tell you of it at the time.
It is uncanny that going to the mountains is a favorite pastime of yours. My passion is downhill skiing. Do you ski? I could show you some of the most beautiful places in the world.
Michael, I have had a message of hope—an incredible experience. Earlier today, Zachary said your letter would be here this evening, and it is four days yet until Sally’s next appointment. He knew she had a meeting tonight and suggested we could meet briefly by the river, on her route home. I will tell you about it.
It is dark, a few stars visible. The full moon hides behind the clouds, softly illuminating the scene. The wind is chasing wispy drifts of snow across the ground and over the thin layer of ice near shore. I park facing the water and can see across it to a small, wood-ed island about the width of a football field away. Zachary joins me a few minutes later. He gives me your letter, we talk a bit, and then he pauses abruptly and says, “Do you see it?” I look in all directions but can see nothing unusual. He looks straight ahead, gives me not a clue. And then my eyes are drawn up and across the water.
I see a light above the tall cottonwood trees, now bare of leaves. It is amazing in its brilliance and in its size. The light has a core of fifteen feet, or more, and emits rays in all directions, that long and longer. It has the look of a star come to earth, of Venus, fallen from the sky. Twice, it descends into the treetops and then rises back up. It is brighter by far than any light I have ever seen. I am awe-struck, gaze in wonder, mesmerized by the sight.
A few minutes go by before Zachary says, “The light will soon begin to move off at an angle (he gestures up and to the left) and then will join with an ordinary light source.” That is exactly what happens. The light begins to slowly climb at a forty-five degree angle, making steady progress on a straight diagonal path. A few stars are visible among the clouds; the light continues to outshine them. Then the lights of a large plane become visible, several miles away on its approach to the airport. The light stays on course, the two paths intersect, and the light merges with the lights of the plane.
Michael, it was extraordinary, to say the least. If I were to have only this, it would be the event of a lifetime, one to guide my every experience and perception. I can hardly believe its impact is some-what diminished by the amazing events of the last two months.
Zachary said, “The light was made manifest through the efforts of some mischievous junior spirits—on a mission at the request of Michael’s spirit.” I want to believe it was a message that we will be together. Zachary said, “Hang on to your hope.” That your spirit would send me such a message is totally in keeping with my experience of him.
Good morning, my love. I sit here in my corner chair, still in awe of the light. It spoke its own truth—such was the magnitude of its appearance. I have to admit, when I woke up I questioned that truth. Given the peripheral involvement of a third party, I had to run it through a logical thought process: the light appeared in an area of rough underbrush, with no access except by boat; Zachary didn’t suggest what I would see or even look up; he predicted the angle the light would take and that it would merge with a more ordinary light source; and, this was no ordinary light—its brilliance alone enough to convince a hardened skeptic. One more thing: when I first looked, the plane Zachary predicted was not yet visible. My logical mind is now satisfied.
Like this light, our experience speaks its own truth. I know what I know. Yet, when I am feeling less connected with the part of myself that knows, I beg
in to question or to think it is all too incredible and wondrous to be true. Emerson writes, in his essay “The Over-Soul,” that “Our faith comes in moments; our vice is habitual.” He explains that the depth of those moments of revelation is what leads us to belief. Yet, such a moment is so brief, so outside of ordinary experience, that we soon think it has been an illusion. Exactly.
They finally came to take the IV away. It took longer today—that vein can’t be much good anymore. I dread them starting another site; my left arm has already been used up.
Other than out-of-this-world and awe-inspiring, I don’t know what to make of the light you described. If the soul can leave the body when we are still living, that would explain some things that have puzzled me. My spirit must have left to direct the message you received. Sometimes you are so clear to me and at other times you are not. Is it possible that our souls are apart from us for purposes of their own?
I will try to come to you tonight. I need to feel your arms around me, to hear you speak my name, to be close to the woman who has captured my heart, my soul, my very self. Love me, my sweet— slowly, gently, completely. I want to wake up in your embrace.
Michael, your letters are exquisitely expressive of your love and emotions. I treasure each one. Can you imagine our life beyond them? I will have to write of my idiosyncrasies, quirks, and imperfections so disillusionment does not mar the day we meet. Of course, you are already perfection to me, as I know I am to you, but sometimes I wonder—what if he knew this, or that, about me?
I asked Amelia to describe you. She told me of your dimples, how you tend to arch one eyebrow, giving you a quizzical look; that your brown hair is short with a little curl to it; and that your lips are firm, but I already knew that. She said your voice is medium deep and resonant, similar to that of a prominent news anchor.
I told you of the light, what I think the message was. My hope is that we will meet in the spring. Any earlier does not appear to be feasible—any later would be an eternity.
Something extraordinary just happened! My doctor, who is also now my friend, came into my room. J.T. was less talkative than usu-al, his voice different, softer. He said, “Please do not be afraid. I am Amelia. With your permission, I would like to examine you.” Then he/she said she needed to use J.T.’s hands to touch me, and did she ever, from my head to my toes. It was different than any exam I’ve ever had. Her touch was warm and gentle; she applied no pressure.
Amelia explained that J.T. would have no memory of her visit or feel any ill effects. She said that I couldn’t ask her any questions, that she was here for only one purpose. When she was through, J.T. started talking as though he had just arrived. I will never doubt again! I must bid you adieu. Vince is coming to take me to lunch, my first time out since I arrived here.
I have your letter in my hand. Oh, ma Cherie, you do make my blood boil. Can I ever get enough of you? I too have felt a deeper presence, a closer spiritual connection. Your explanation of our angels helps me understand them better. When Amelia was here, she was totally focused on her examination of me. Speak more to me of spring—how I cling to the thought of it.
This day has been one of sweet serenity, due in part to Amelia’s visit. My doubts have fled—in their place are now certainties. Will she come again? Will she please talk to me? I don’t even care if she uses the warden’s body.
I now know the meaning of our simultaneous visions shortly before Eli spoke to us. I think he must have prompted them. You are a chief: your name is Bear Hunter (in translation) and mine is Morning Star. It is a time of war, and you are involved in a conflict not far from where we live. A messenger comes in the night, tells me to go to you. In my vision, I am aware of danger, of a terrible event portended. It is a precarious journey. I have to travel for a time over thin ice that is covered with snow. I vividly feel the sensation of having to tread carefully, step by step. I feel the dread of knowing that your life is in peril.
You have been mortally wounded but cling to life and wait for me. I find you lying on the ground, your strong, lean body now weak and bleeding. You die in my arms. I hear the word “noonah.” It is a term of endearment that means “little one.” Bear Hunter murmurs it over and over to Morning Star in their last moments together.
Michael … Michael … Michael. I say your name again and again—as a sigh, as a kiss, as deep contentment.
14. Room for Doubt
11/08 – 11/11
My beloved, I am so sorry about the miscarriage you suffered. I am truly honored that, because I was not to be the father, this soul chose to wait. I think often of us as husband and wife, but I am being premature. I wish there was a better word than wife, which can’t begin to describe what you would be to me. I have to leave now for my tests.
I couldn’t sit around and wait for the others and the hospice van, took a cab back from the lab wing two blocks away. I need to be alone with you, my sweet. Can I love you any more completely than I did last night and this morning? Did you cry out my name? I feel you close again as I write … and remember.
Ethan came back from the lab in a great deal of pain. He tries to hide it, to be a tough guy, but I can see through him, have been there too often myself. I stayed with him until he fell asleep.
Michael, you would have found me on the cross-country ski trails, not the downhill slopes. Outdoors now, if not hiking, I like to garden and bird watch. I grew up ice skating and riding horses, used to skate with the girls every winter. I yearn to ride again, galloping across the prairie, that magnificent feeling of freedom to be found in synchrony with another creature.
If indoors and sitting down, I am likely to have a book in hand. If asked to name a favorite, it is a collection of twelve plays by Ibsen, each a perfect microcosm reflecting a timeless quality, the human dilemmas and motivations of today as much as those of the 19th century. In non-fiction, one favorite is Emerson. You would appreciate his beautifully expressive essay on Shakespeare. I was not surprised to learn from Zachary that Emerson was a returning Master.
My taste in music is eclectic: the nostalgia of classic rock as I drive down the highway at ninety miles an hour, cola in hand; blues or light jazz from the back of an old-fashioned night club, steeped in history; and a variety of classical, imagining that I am sitting in a stately concert hall in Vienna or Paris the first time a masterpiece is played.
I have dabbled in oil painting, start needlework projects (some-times finish them), and play piano, though I have absolutely no sense of rhythm, except for yours. I see that I forgot to mention movies—a recent favorite of mine is The Incredible Lightness of Being.
My love, my raison d’etre, you grow more dear to me by the hour. We now have a more steady and constant connection as we walk together through our day. I will be close tomorrow as you have your tests.
Darling, I love you more with each day that passes. I am so full of thoughts this morning that I can hardly sort them out. You thrill me beyond belief, but I won’t be complete until I hold you in my arms. I dream of spring. I must go.
Ethan is quite ill and they have called his parents. I haven’t known him for long, but he has really touched my heart. Thank you for saying what you did about the kind of father I am. I didn’t do everything right with Vince, but he always knew that I loved him. He is here.
Vince walked into my room tonight saying, “Bonsoir, Papa.” Sometimes he can be a real smartass. I think often of telling him about us but, though he is open-minded, this news could be a real bombshell.
Michael, my heart, my soul—I have been so well taken. You could not have touched me any more deeply or completely. I feel you still. Lie to me if you must, but tell me you were just here with me. If you were not, then someone else was; perhaps your spirit was here without you. I need to change the subject so I can leave for the office with the afterglow of our love a little less visible on my face.
Amelia will request permission to answer your questions. She said, “Michael should not have to go through such anguish.�
�� Such requests are not taken lightly. Before Zachary could reveal himself to me, I had to pass a number of tests, was faced with challenges. He said about half of those selected pass the tests they are given. Of those, some can’t accept the manner in which they were approached, and their memories of the contact are taken from them. Do you remember Pascal’s branch that could not comprehend the tree? I sometimes feel like the smallest twig.
Your letter is here. What do you mean about me not being there? Is it possible for someone else to be there with you? Tell me it is not. I can’t stand the thought of it. Teresa, listen to me carefully—the one thing that would end our relationship is infidelity. I have been through it before and will not go through it again. I was with you that night. No, I will not give you details, they may be wrong as well. Are we are having our first fight?
Before I end this letter, I must declare some basic truths: I love you, regardless of the limits set on us; I know when I am with you, feel your touch as you feel mine; I don’t give a damn about the times; and I don’t like being used for verification purposes. Do you love me as you say you do? Then come to me tonight, and tell me if my irritation shows when we are together.
Michael, you once wrote that you have had a good life. I have thought the same, mostly satisfied with the choices I have made. Now I know what has been missing. Your love would have enhanced every facet of my life: every contact with another, every experience in nature, every quiet moment alone. As I write these words, I do not mourn. I cannot let this knowledge flavor the entire past with bitterness.