A friend and her toddler son came to stay with us overnight this week. Whilst smoking her umpteenth cigarette over yet another instant black coffee, she casually decided to drop the bomb – her suspicions about her son’s psychic abilities. I could tell she was gauging my views as someone she lovingly regards as having a wacky outlook on life. And if the cap fits; I guess it would be rude not to wear it!
He can pick out and name dead relatives from old family photos. The thing is, I didn’t even know that was Poppy as a lad in the picture, said she.
I’m sorely tempted to say: woweeeee isn’t your three year old boy just so gifted – but not sure that’s actually what she’s after here. So we go through a laundry list. Anyone mention Poppy before? A very lucky guess? Are you sure he clearly said Poppy and not Potty? A firm no to all these. I mean she’s clearly been over all this before she’s asking my opinion.
The thing is, I’m not totally close minded about this kind of thing. Reports of ESP between twins fascinates me and it is not the first time a friend or relative has spoken to me about their children seemingly communicating with or knowing real facts about invisible or dead people that cannot otherwise be explained away.
I personally like to believe in the power of the little white feather as a sign of being watched over and protected by an ancestor.
I have also experienced an ornate glass mirror crash to the ground and smash at an exacting and difficult personal moment; then there was the freak gust of wind that trapped me in a remote shed with no phone (I had to smash a window to get out) and better still – the most tantalisingly Hollywood-esque of all my ghostings: a gory self stab wound from a corkscrew at a friend’s house in the immediate aftermath of her boyfriend’s suicide; a tortured soul whose self-medicated paranoia hated her friends (me) and whose increasingly severe mental state sadly manifested in demonic manic episodes and threats before it all went eerily quiet.
We didn’t understand the extent of it until after he was gone, of course. The upright corkscrew embedded deep; it had to be wrenched from my thigh, a scar I still bear today. It still sends chills down my spine when I think of it.
And then there are all the strange co-incidences. Well don’t even get me started on them right now. If you are interested, I may write about some of these in future posts (I started recording them in my notebook such were their weirdness and frequency) and I might even share my one “ghostly encounter” which is still fairly, if not entirely, persuasive in my mind.
So where do we go after we pass? Are we just floating around for toddlers to babble with?
Without sounding too creepy, one of my favourite go to locations in any town, city or village is a graveyard if I need to find peace of mind and solace (minus the loneliness). Why is that? Or is this also within the realms of man-made fiction through the generations?
Who knows? I guess only time will tell!