The nights of an insomniac and a mom of an infant are
basically the same. Thanks to 24 hour news channels, I am SUPER up on current
events. I feel like I have personal friendship with Isaac Mizrahi and I love
his ENTIRE collection on QVC. We are totally besties. Also, caffeine. Lots of
it. Cannot get enough. *twitch*
 |
| Middle of the night is a great time to binge watch Game of Thrones. |
Except, during my long nights I occasionally “see” people,
dead people who are waiting around for me to either:
A. Get to their loved one’s email reading
Or
B. Hanging out in preparation for their loved ones in person
appointment the next day.
This week, everything was the usual in my middle of the
night routine, except that I don’t have a squeaky rocking chair, and I kept on
hearing a squeaky rocking chair. Feeding after feeding the squeaking got louder
and louder, yet I could not find where it was coming from. As I stumbled around
the darkness of my kitchen, the noise level didn’t change wherever I went. While my ear was to the ice maker in the fridge,
as I attempted to rule out appliance failure, I felt a comforting presence with
me and I smelled a cinnamon fragrance of a pipe.
“Okay,” I said quietly, “Send me your people and I will read
them.” The squeaking stops.
Next day, I get a request for an email reading from a woman
who just lost her beloved grandfather. She sends me his pictures. As soon as I
open them his presence hits me like a ton of bricks. I hear the squeaking
again.
In her email reading, I ask if grandpa had a squeaky rocking
chair. I share that I have been hearing this for about 12 hours before her
request of a reading. “Yes,” she replies “An old ugly squeaking rocking chair
that was his favorite.” She continues by saying she grew up visiting the house
and the comforting smells of grandpa’s pipe were part of her best memories.
I never hear the squeaking again.
