LJ Idol Season 10, Week 4 (Break Week), Prompt 4 - A Possum ran over my grave
We call it something different here in Scotland. When we experience that random shiver, our mams would tell us someone is dancing on your grave. That always seemed incongruous to me. Why was someone in a graveyard dancing on the spot that I would one day lie! And why were they doing it at such odd times, didn’t they know the soaps were on?
There is a lot that used to be different. I believed in all this once. That unexplained shivers had a deeper meaning. That white feathers were a sign of someone you loved saying hello. That orbs in a picture were the spirits of those around you.
I visited a pshycic at least once a year, hung on her every word, came back and explained in awe at how much she had known. When mum first died I was desperate to go see her, to have a message, to have a chance to be connected to her again, but someone told me you had to wait for at least three months, so I bided my time and in the interim, my hubby and I watched a show called ‘The Mentalist’ and I learned how smart people can seem to know more, to be more.
After that I denounced them all as fakes, was angry at the women I used to see, the charlatan. I was now as firm in my lack of faith as I had been devout in my belief.
Then one day I was chatting to my cousins girlfriend about the night before my mum died. She had lost her mum and dad years before I met her and as it goes with people who have a shared common loss, we turned to a story of mum.
The night before mum passed she kept getting up out of bed, naked I might add, and wondering the house. Sleep deprived from the night before my cousin had taken it upon himself to stay awake and inform me every time she got up, so the evening went from slep, to a shake with “Maggie your ma’s awake”, to putting my crazy mam back in her bed.
I asked her the fourth ( or was it the fifth) time why she kept getting up and she glared malevontly into the corner.
“It’s him, he won’t fuck off”
I stared at the blank space in the corner. “Who mum?”
“Him, George,” she spat out. “he keeps trying to get me to come dance with him, tell him to fuck off. I don't want to go dancing with him”
“Ok, one if I swear you’ll slap me, two there is no one there darling, back into bed”
"I dont want to go dancing with him Margaret. Tell him to go." her voice turning fearful
I put her back into bed and lay down next to her. Letting her go back to sleep and stroking her hair as she muttered about how much George needed to fuck off cos she wasn’t going dancing.
It was a small little memory of the night before we lost her, a strange one as we didn’t know a George and I had remembered it and was relaying it to them, when I looked up she was grey, not white, grey. I asked her panicked what was wrong and she then told me that in the weeks leading up to my mums death she had prayed to her mum and dad. Had told them that an amazing wee woman would be joining them and could they help her.
Her dad’s name, yep you guessed it. George. I finally had an answer to the funny wee man who kept trying to steal my mammy off for a dance and who eventually succeeded.
And yes that day a possum really did run over my grave, in fact I think my Mum and George may have been dancing away on it.
Which leaves me now in a half way house. I still think most pshycics are con artists, I think most of it is mumbo jumbo, made up and used to manipulate those who need it most.
But I also think there is something more out there, something even the most reasoned arguments can’t push away.
Sometimes, when you need it the most,there really is someone waiting to take you to dance.
There is a lot that used to be different. I believed in all this once. That unexplained shivers had a deeper meaning. That white feathers were a sign of someone you loved saying hello. That orbs in a picture were the spirits of those around you.
I visited a pshycic at least once a year, hung on her every word, came back and explained in awe at how much she had known. When mum first died I was desperate to go see her, to have a message, to have a chance to be connected to her again, but someone told me you had to wait for at least three months, so I bided my time and in the interim, my hubby and I watched a show called ‘The Mentalist’ and I learned how smart people can seem to know more, to be more.
After that I denounced them all as fakes, was angry at the women I used to see, the charlatan. I was now as firm in my lack of faith as I had been devout in my belief.
Then one day I was chatting to my cousins girlfriend about the night before my mum died. She had lost her mum and dad years before I met her and as it goes with people who have a shared common loss, we turned to a story of mum.
The night before mum passed she kept getting up out of bed, naked I might add, and wondering the house. Sleep deprived from the night before my cousin had taken it upon himself to stay awake and inform me every time she got up, so the evening went from slep, to a shake with “Maggie your ma’s awake”, to putting my crazy mam back in her bed.
I asked her the fourth ( or was it the fifth) time why she kept getting up and she glared malevontly into the corner.
“It’s him, he won’t fuck off”
I stared at the blank space in the corner. “Who mum?”
“Him, George,” she spat out. “he keeps trying to get me to come dance with him, tell him to fuck off. I don't want to go dancing with him”
“Ok, one if I swear you’ll slap me, two there is no one there darling, back into bed”
"I dont want to go dancing with him Margaret. Tell him to go." her voice turning fearful
I put her back into bed and lay down next to her. Letting her go back to sleep and stroking her hair as she muttered about how much George needed to fuck off cos she wasn’t going dancing.
It was a small little memory of the night before we lost her, a strange one as we didn’t know a George and I had remembered it and was relaying it to them, when I looked up she was grey, not white, grey. I asked her panicked what was wrong and she then told me that in the weeks leading up to my mums death she had prayed to her mum and dad. Had told them that an amazing wee woman would be joining them and could they help her.
Her dad’s name, yep you guessed it. George. I finally had an answer to the funny wee man who kept trying to steal my mammy off for a dance and who eventually succeeded.
And yes that day a possum really did run over my grave, in fact I think my Mum and George may have been dancing away on it.
Which leaves me now in a half way house. I still think most pshycics are con artists, I think most of it is mumbo jumbo, made up and used to manipulate those who need it most.
But I also think there is something more out there, something even the most reasoned arguments can’t push away.
Sometimes, when you need it the most,there really is someone waiting to take you to dance.