Within the first hour of my father’s death,
a woman I’d known since I was a child,
who exposed us to the tarot pack;
attempted séances at her kitchen table;
talked telepathically to her cats;
and who ten years later killed herself;
followed me around my house like a ghost.
“You should talk about it, Kelly.
It’s not good to hold it in.
Tell me what you saw.
What were his last moments?
You should talk to someone.
I’m here if you need to talk.”
This morning I woke thinking of her,
and her soft almost whispering voice
chanting across the house as she followed me
who, at seventeen, had just, minutes before,
watched my father drown in his own phlegm.
I woke thinking of her, twenty years later;
and I wondered what she saw that day
alone on the bathroom floor; what did she see
as she placed the gun barrel in her mouth?
subtext 
Yes, It was sad. I don't think she had a happy life with Hal. Not that he was not a gentle man, but not what she really wanted. I had forgotten about her following me around, it just came to me one morning, and I thought, That was really weird.
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Cayce…
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Oddly enough her table thumping and telepathic cat communication crossed my mind the other day. Don't remember why. She was into Edgar Cauce, too. Never heard the story about her following you around that day though. She was a good teacher. Cared about her students even when they bemused her. I had her twice. History and English. Sad.
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Her anguish and the creepiness of it as well. She was on the edge for most of the time I knew her and never really thought about it until now. Most of the time we are oblivious to others.
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This gave me pause. The fragility of life. Thanks for sharing this. The soul's anguish.
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