I laid in bed the other morning, longer than I usually do. For no other reason than I can.
Thoughts were going in and out of my head. I started thinking of a childhood friend. We grew up together. He was my age. Our relationship started when I was about five and lasted until I was about fourteen, when we grew apart.
But, at the time we were best buddies, blood brothers, cutting each others fingers until they bled then rubbing them together. Not advisable to do anymore. But as kids that's what we did. His name was Stephen. During that time, I got to know his family, his mother, Elsie. A sister named Veronica, and his father. The family immigrated to Canada from Poland after the war.
So, I'm lying there, looking at the ceiling of the RV thinking of all the good times Stephen and I had growing up together when I started thinking of his father. I could see his image in my mind, his face, clear as day. He was a good man. Loved his wife and kids and was a hard worker, a mechanic, drove a 56 Chevy, took me camping with them, took me everywhere. Treated me as if I were Stephens brother, his son. I ate at their house a lot. I did sleep overs many nights.
I laid there, thinking of him, trying to think of his name but all that came up was his face. I couldn't for the life of me remember his name. It bothered me. I remembered his dog's name Rolf, but not his.
Have you ever had that happen to you when you can't think of a name of a place or person and it bothers you, until you eventually figure it out?
Well, about a week passed and I received a message on Facebook from my sister back east where we all grew up.
She was asking me if I knew anything about what happened to Veronica, she had been searching for years and had come up with nothing. She was wondering if I was in touch with Stephen at all, because she was reading in the newspaper that Stephen's father had recently just died and written in his obituary, it read that his daughter Veronica was predeceased.
She told me Stephen's father's name. It was Chester.
Was it a coincidence? I don't think so. Was it some sort of mental telepathy? Why was I thinking of Stephen's father days before his death?
I personally feel Stephens father was trying to reach out to me before he died to say 'good-bye.' I might have been one of his last thoughts. People that have experienced 'Near Death Experiences' say this is what happens. The same thing happens with dementia, you remember things that happened many years ago but can't remember an hour ago. It raises more questions than it answers for me.
Who shall I think of next, eh?
No comments:
Post a Comment