#94 Watching

by Franca Stewart

I see many things others don’t.

I am not an angel or a ghost, or the shadow sliding from your line of sight when you turn your head. I prefer to call myself an observer. One who watches as you live, and as you leave.

I see the moment of your death, the colours explode from your soul as you depart this life; watch those you’ve left behind collapse or bear it stoically, or comfort others when they feel their hearts burst with grief. The ones who keep going for young children or a spouse, and those who feel they have no reason left to live. Some find their reason. Others don’t. I see many souls explode as the bereft remove themselves from the world.

But I am the one who sends you the signs. The dreams. The rainbow you see when you think of your loss. The voice you hear so clearly in your head it stops you in your tracks. The butterfly resting on your window. The colours of life are everywhere, even when the world looks dull and grey. Sometimes there is unexpected sunshine lifting early spring flowers. There is light and life and hope.

I am not death, nor am I life. I am the part of the soul that never wanted to leave you. The part that stays to keep you safe. The part that laughs when you do, and longs to hug you when you cry.

I am whatever you need to have hope.