It was the first holiday without our Father, and we felt really strange. It was a tossed salad of emotions. On one hand, it was for the best. Our Parents just didn't get along. The fighting was terrible, and we hid in our rooms as we listened to the bickering.
Finally, it was over. They sat us down one day, and told us they were getting divorced. We knew it was a good thing, and in a way, I was relieved. No more listening to the grown ups acting like children. This is what it felt like. I took charge of the younger kids, and I kept them away from the slaps that rang out, when Daddy and Mother... Lost their tempers.
Anyway, Daddy moved on, and Mother...well, she did the best she could, I guess. That first year was really hard, but we tried to find normalcy in every day playing, going to school... You know, just being kids.
The first Christmas was a somber affair, and we had been told in advance, there just wasn't enough money for presents that year. I hoped my Daddy didn't have much to do with it, but I suspected he wasn't sending much-if any, child support. We were barely getting by as it was.
I was a sickly kid. Something was always happening to me, but I understand it all now. As a sensitive with "gifts", my body was under tremendous effort. Anyway, not to dwell on that aspect of my story, I want to tell you about the first Christmas we lived without Father.
My brother was being fitted in a costume. He was going to be playing an Angel in the Christmas story. I kept arguing with Mother and telling her the costume wasn't right. Angel wings were bigger...wider, with large arches, where it curved downward.
I remember my brother saying, "How would you know?" he laughed.
I was indignant, but couldn't say a thing back. I had seen real Angels, and I knew what their wings looked like. Who would believe me anyway? So I stayed silent, fuming at myself.
The evening progressed, and my Mother was sitting in her chair next to the doorway of our bedroom. We were listening to Christmas music, and reading. All of us kids were laying around on the carpet, quiet, for once, engrossed in whatever we were doing.
I caught a glimpse of something to my right, so I looked up at the movement. In the doorway to our bedroom, stood an old man. He had on high wasted pants with suspenders, and a plaid shirt. I remember blurting out, "WHO is that man?"
My Mother looked up from her book, and said very matter of fact,
"Oh! That's you Great-Grandfather...that would make him my Grandfather. He died before I was born, and he likes to visit during the holidays..." I had never seen him around in the past.
My Brother and sisters were looking at me and Mother-like we had lost our minds. She went on to explain that she had been given just one picture of him, and when he manifested himself, he always appeared in these clothes.
"What man?" my brother sputtered.
"I don't see anybody..." one of my sisters chirped up.
By the time everyone was through commenting on what had transpired, the old man was gone. He didn't say a thing, had never lived in this old house, and had died in another country. It was the first and ONLY TIME my Mother wanted to discuss the Ghost of her Grandfather, and she didn't say much. As soon as he was gone, she acted like it never happened.
After this, we never discussed the paranormal again. Over the years, I think she liked to think of this as her own little secret. I can't explain it here, but she was a bit narcissistic.
I wondered why he showed himself to just me and my Mother. Any ideas?