As is typical for me since Erik’s death, Sunday was difficult. All the down time leaves plenty of opportunity for the mind to wander into dark crevices it had managed to avoid the entire week. Such days of despair are less frequent than they were those first months, but I am resigned to the fact that grief will be my constant companion until the day I die.

My sadness brought me to the usual pleading and begging for a visit, a momentary glimpse, a voice, a smell. I did not beg for proof of his continued existence. Of that, I have no doubt. I just felt lonely for his company. I know that the veil between our dimensions is ethereal and thin, and this only frustrates me more. I envisioned myself clawing at that veil like a drowning house cat trapped in a burlap sack. It may as well been made of Kevlar. I drifted to sleep with disappointment in my heart and tears on my face.

A few hours later, in the wee hours of the morning, I woke up, glanced over at my sleeping husband, and rolled to look at the time on my nightstand alarm clock. Before I could even register the fact that it was three o’clock in the morning, my comforter, which had been folded in half at the level of my waist, flew up to cover my entire face. No law of physics, at least in my limited three dimensional reality, could possibly explain what had happened. My husband may has well been a comatose patient. I, however, was fully awake. There were no smoke and mirrors, no strings, no props, no pets, no nothing. All I could do is smile and say, “Thank you for the visit, Erik.”