Touch from the grave

In recent months my mother has been increasingly talking with my father – across the dining table, while seated in the living room.

Nothing strange about this... except my father has been dead for over 25 years now. She’s aware of this, and sometimes asks me if it’s OK to talk with the dead.

I tell her it’s OK, and joke that she should ask him for winning lotto numbers. I tell her this in all sincerity, because as I’ve previously written, a toddler in our household regularly has animated chats with my partner who passed away in 2021, whom she calls “Momo” (ghost).

All of us in the household have gotten rather used to otherworldly presence in our midst. Momo’s various types of paramdam or manifestations scare all of the household members, but in my case, I find solace in the thought that my partner continues to keep me company.

The toddler is now approaching three years old and is in kiddie school, and her otherworldly chats with Momo – who died when she was just three months old – have become rare.

But Momo manages to continue making his presence felt in the house. On my birthday this year, for the first and only time since the house was built, as I went out of the bedroom upon waking up, I was startled by ice-cold condensation as I touched the door exterior and surrounding concrete walls. We checked every nook and cranny in that spot but found no leak anywhere in the ceiling. It hadn’t been raining and there was no wind or heavy humidity that might have caused the condensation.

I told myself it was a touch from a cold grave.

*      *      *

Sometime during this period, my new puppy, which had been yipping as softly as a mouse, startled the household one noontime with aggressive non-stop barking as loud as an adult dog’s, directed at the kitchen where the cook was standing. The cook said she got goosebumps while watching the puppy snarling not at her, but at a spot beside her.

Suddenly the puppy gave a frightened yelp, turned tail and fled. The older dog in my lap getting a tummy rub also tensed up, squirmed and jumped away. Both dogs hid under the dining chairs, still looking wide-eyed in the direction of the kitchen, quiet as a mouse.

My partner enjoyed teasing dogs, and it gave me some comfort to believe he was again doing it, from another dimension, and that he was still moving around the house.

I can write about this only on these days dedicated to saints and souls, when people won’t think I’m coming unhinged.

With the toddler growing up and seeing less and less of Momo, I clutch at anything that might help me continue remembering. His photos are all over our bedroom, to make sure I won’t forget his face. I often play Tom Walker’s “For Those Who Can’t Be Here” on the piano, and sometimes still end up getting teary-eyed.

I should be letting my partner rest in peace, but there’s selfishness in mourning. Those incidents that I tell myself are close encounters of the otherworldly kind reassure me of his continued presence.

*      *      *

Remembering has become a problem for my mom, soon turning 88. Her long-term memory is phenomenal; she can recall the names of her grade school teachers and the street games that they played (verified by her siblings who don’t have dementia).

But short-term memory, so critical for day-to-day existence, is a major hurdle. Cognitive decline is a cruel affliction of age. I’ve been reading up on it, and have learned that there are common symptoms, apart from serious memory loss: personality changes that usually make you extremely unpleasant to others, indifference to personal hygiene, a feeling that the world is conspiring against you and that your regular companions are out to rob you or inflict physical harm.

Because my mom’s short-term memory has deteriorated, she can no longer enjoy her favorite K-dramas, play mah-jongg or bingo or read novels. Boredom develops easily.

The afflicted require a lot of understanding, patience, companionship and love. Regular trips outside the house are useful – even if only to nearby malls – just to change the scenery, provide mental stimulation and get the person to have some physical exercise.

So I also appreciate it when my departed father keeps my mother company (she says). During these instances, her eyes turn glassy and unfocused, and she talks (like the toddler) in unintelligible but animated whispers.

Once over lunch she gave me a wide, sweet grin and whispered into my ear numbers that she said were given by my father in her dreams. But I couldn’t be sure of the exact six numbers or number combinations that were supplied.

One thing I’ve learned from these otherworldly chats – the living who don’t see dead people can’t carry out conversations with the deceased. Those who see dead people don’t serve as conduits. For example, I can’t ask my father or my partner, through the toddler or my mom, what it’s like on the other side. There has never been any response.

Another thing I noticed from multiple cases over the years is that the elderly who while awake begin talking with the dead are usually preparing for their own departure from the world of the living. I’ve seen this many times, even in the final weeks with my father, who told us his departed parents and siblings were by his bedside.

It’s my biggest worry these days about my mom.

I comfort myself with the thought that she will always have people who love her, whether in this world or the next.