When I was eight years old, my grandmother died of ovarian cancer. Her death severely affected my family, but she made sure some of us knew we were being watched.
One day I was playing with a jump rope in my grandfather’s yard, next door to our house, when something told me to look up at the back door of his house. When I did, I saw my grandmother’s smiling, semi-transparent image with her hand on the glass. Frightened and fully aware that her funeral had been a few days prior, I ran home screaming for my mother.
My grandfather believes he had another encounter with her. He recalled being alone in the house one night and hearing her footsteps in the mudroom. When he peered down the dark hallway, the footsteps faded away.
My youngest cousin was born several months after my grandmother’s death, so he never knew her. However, she still managed to introduce herself. One evening my aunt was giving my cousin a bath. Suddenly he squealed, pointed hard over her shoulder, and laughed. My aunt, turning to chide my uncle, saw nothing and was startled to learn they were alone in the house.
Even in death, Grandma is making her presence well known and surely remembered.