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Touched by an Angel
Emmeline and I are in the backyard gardening. The weather is cooling and it is incredibly enjoyable to be outside. I am transplanting all of my beautiful succulents so that they can grow and multiply through the winter. Emmeline has chosen a ton of “pity fowers to pwant,” (chrysanthemums) into her tiny pots. We have our “gubs” on and are chatting about two-year-old conundrums, like, “How you get pokey pwants out dat pot?” while I transplant cacti.
Suddenly, she says, “Oh! Hi!” I answer, “Hello there, lady!” She says “Not you, Mommy. Dat guy dat bizits.”
That guy that visits? Holy sh**. What guy? We are home alone. I do the crazy Mama bear protective jump in front of my daughter and put my arms out, ready to grab her and run from an attacker. My eyes dart around the perimeter of the yard. We are alone.
My heart is racing and I am trying to keep my fight-or-flight adrenaline in check. “Where did you see that guy?” “Siwwy Mommy! Da guy is wite hewe!” She holds her hand out next to her, pointing at empty space.
Ohhhhhhh. She has an invisible friend.
“Him is me fwend and he is hewpin me pwant!”
“That’s great, honey!” Her words roll around in my mind as I put tiny buds into spice jars. I think it’s interesting because she says her “friend” is a guy. Usually when she plays babies, they are always girls. Her stuffed animals are girls. Plants are girls. Pretty much everything except for Daddy is female in her world. We are swimming in a sea of estrogen in this house.
Both my daughters have great imaginations, and I love to watch their brains in action. So, I tend to ask them multi-faceted questions that require them to dig a little deeper than a holophrastic “yes” or “no” response.
“Is your friend still here, Emmeline?”
“Yeah, him is.”
“What does he look like?”
She begins to describe him: "Him is taw. Him has gasses. Him has a haiwy face. Him is me fwend. "
I slowly turn and stare at her. The temperature drops noticeably. She is describing someone dear to me that was taken way too early in life. Someone she unfortunately never met because he has been gone for several years now.
I don’t want her to stop talking. I want to hear all about her friend. But, I also know if I ask too many questions, she will clam up. So I say, “Well then, you’re really lucky to have him as a friend. He’s a great guy. I wish I could hang out with him, too.”
What if “imaginary friends” aren’t really made up? What if they’re heaven sent angels checking in? Maybe I don’ see him because this exchange is not meant to be “seen” by eyes; only witnessed through the minds of those who have not been jaded to the whole concept.
I am a voyeur to thia tête-à-tête: “Yeah, me are two. Me are big. Me hab a big giw kibby. Dis is me baby. Her name is Yemonade. Do you yike me fowers?” After a few minutes, she is done planting and stops talking.
“Everything ok, baby?”
“Yup! Me fowers is done. Me fwend hada go bye-bye.”
“Well, your flowers look fantastic!”
Could it be she has a fabulous imagination? Absolutely. But, it’s really comforting to think that once a loved one passes, they can still come to check in on you. I like thinking that loved ones no longer in corporeal form can still visit to get to know your babies…and help them plant flowers.
Have you ever been ‘touched by an Angel?’
Tracy Winslow is a regular contributor on Mamas Against Drama, BlogHer, BloggyMoms and Errant Parent. To follow the hilarious adventures of Tracy and her two daughters, go to Momaical.