My grandfather, my father’s father, died when I was 18, in January of 1995. It was my first year of university and the beginning of a new semester; my parents thought it best, when his health took a turn for the worse, not to distract me by calling me to come to him. I know that they wanted to do what was best for me, and I understand that, but at the time I felt so guilty, so horrible– I hadn’t seen him since the previous summer (again, my father’s side of the family lives far enough away that weekly– monthly– even bi-annual visits aren’t always an option) and I had missed him so much; and yet I didn’t go see him. I guess it was that he’d only been noticeably ill (silicosis– better known as black lung disease– one of the many risks of being a coal miner and heavy smoker since the age of 12) a few months, and I didn’t know how serious it was– he was young! Only 68! don’t these things take years?– and, well, I didn’t go see him. My younger brother was in his last year of highschool at the time; my older sister was married with a less-than-one-month-old daughter. My brother went with my father, and when Papa died on January 15th my baby bro was there in the room with him.

At our wedding dinner, my family were all gathered around, telling stories. My aunt Marilyn told a story about her daughter, Shannon, who is now 14.

Two weeks after Papa’s death, Shannon came into the room and handed a piece of scribbled paper to her mother. Marilyn said “Oh, what’s this?” “It’s a note from Papa”. Shannon was three years old at the time, and didn’t really know what was going on. Marilyn asked her what the note said. “It says ‘Don’t cry anymore. I’m in heaven with Peter and I’m all better now”.

Peter was my grandfather’s brother, who had died years ago, before I was born. Shannon had no way of knowing this.

My father then decided to tell his little story.

When my grandfather was ill, he and my brother were talking in his hospital room. It was a few days before he passed away, and he was still fairly lucid. He told my brother– who was seventeen at the time– that he was the only grandchild who would be able to carry on the family name (my father has two brothers– one who has never had children, and one who had two girls– and four sisters). He jokingly told him that he wanted him to make sure and have “lots of boys”.

Fast forward eight years and my brother’s wife gives birth to their first child– a boy– on my grandfather’s birthday.

About a year and a half later, my father was taking care of little G., who toddled up to him and said “Papa!”. Dad said “Oh, are you going to call me Papa?” (G’s parents would call my dad “granddad” etc so it was weird that G. was saying that). G looked at him, laughed, and said “No… MEEEEE Papa!” then went back to playing.

Anyway. Spooky.