Other World

Every day is different. When my eyes stay sealed shut because I do not want to open them to the truth of the day, I can feel the spoiled, sour knowing rise from my belly into my aching heart. This morning is no different. I tried to keep my eyes closed, get a little more sleep. Surely, the sun was rising by now, but when I broke the seal to peek at the time it was only 3:30am. Not enough sleep, not enough time. Not enough Edmond. I willed myself to sleep a little longer with the hope that he might come to me in my dreams again. He did not. He will come again, I am sure of it. It was our agreement and part of our conversations for many years. We promised if something happened, if we were separated by death, we would find ways to communicate.

I stood by the fire pit he built on Wednesday. It is a gorgeous work of masonry using stones from our land. It was his first attempt, and it is beautiful. It is the center, the navel of our property. I stood there and spoke to him out loud. I insisted he find a way through. I needed contact and connection. He came through that night with the most peaceful dream connection and messages. I want more. I will always want more.

The balance is off, and I am trying to find it for myself and my children. On Friday, I reminded William, our son who has only been a teenager for two weeks, to please check on the chickens. After he walked out the door, I turned to my oldest child, Jade, who has been a man for almost a decade now, with concern. I told him that I hoped none of the “geriatric, free-loading chickens” (Edmond’s words) were dead. Jade went out to meet his brother by the coop. They both returned in to tell us that one of our hens, Jane, in fact, was dead. I was concerned William would take it personally, like it was somehow his fault. He is so incredibly responsible, overly so at times. A trait he comes by naturally and from both sides. Thankfully, he did not. Instead, the boys placed the chicken at the back of the land near the creek to be taken care of by natural predators.

As we sat down for dinner that night, seven instead of eight of us including my oldest daughter’s amazing partner, I remembered something. I remembered that five years ago, on Good Friday, a chicken from another flock had died. I told the story of how William and Edmond had scooped her up and dug a hole (no easy feat in the Hill Country soil on a limestone shelf). Edmond buried her, placing a heavy stone on top to keep animals from digging her up. When he told me this, I asked him if he thought maybe that chicken was going to rise on Easter Sunday. We laughed. We laughed a lot and often. I want more of his laughter and his humor.

We talked all the time about everything. We talked about death and other realms, the veil that could feel so very thin at times, heaven, God, our ancestors and guides, and the connections we experienced from the other side. His dad, who died suddenly and similarly in 2012 and our dog Zeke who died in 2017 were frequent messengers in our lives. I know they are together now, and I am jealous. I am not mad at him or anyone. I am mad that he is not here. I am heartbroken, and the anxiety and panic of his absence comes on so strong at times.

There is a theory within quantum mechanics that I studied in graduate school. It explores the possibility of multiple universes or multi-worlds that exist in parallel at the same time and space as our own. When an event occurs, in order to deal with the problem of randomness, every single possible outcome happens within a different “world”.

I was thinking about this walking one of our dogs on Thursday. I was trying to wrap my mind around this impossible moment. I feel like someone pushed a button and launched me into another time and space, another world. I want the world where Edmond lives. I want to be there.