Reincarnation? By D. E. Allen
The kids were up from the city for a visit, and our
4-year-old granddaughter Kelly would spend the night with us. It would be her first sleep over, a chance
for my Son and Daughter-in-law to have a whole night to themselves, and
reconnect to the romance in their lives.
After dinner, 4 year-old Kelly, my wife Helene, and I
gathered in the living room for a quiet evening.
“Hi sweetheart, what are you doing?”
“Coloring.”
“Oh, Mickey Mouse, looks like fun.”
“No, it’s Minnie Mouse.”
“Oh I see, a nice red polka-dot dress, that’s Minnie Mouse
alright.”
Well Grandpa had already blown it with the elder female at
the dinner table with a badly timed remark about the gravy, so now it looks
like I’m 0 for 2 with the ladies.
I settled down into my recliner and clicked on the History
channel. I had a half hour of TV time
before my darling wife, queen of the remote control, would stretch out her hand
to me signaling an end to my TV viewing, and the start of her watching crime
solving super team shows for the rest of the night. You know what shows I mean.
The ones with acronyms infused in the name, S.V.U.; C. S. I.; N.C.I.S.;
I jokingly call them all E.I.E.I.O. Old McDonalds Farm Bureau Investigators.
But tonight, would be a little different. Tonight that 4 year-old little girl would
change our perception of reality.
The History channel had on another rehash of 9-11 conspiracy
stories. It was mostly talk, and the
usual B.S., but, yes, I should have realized that certain images inappropriate
for younger viewers might be on the screen.
Then, the TV flashed those all too familiar horror filled
moments, just as the plane went slicing into the second tower, and my granddaughter looked up at the TV and said, “That’s when I died.”
Talk about shock and awe.
My wife reacted first, “Honey, many OTHER people died, it
was a very sad day.”
“No Grandma, we heard the noise, and smoke came and we all
went into the corner, and—“
That was enough. My
wife looked at me to turn off the TV, but I beat her to the punch, the damn TV
was off before her eyes met mine.
Then Grandpa spoke the kind of words that come to Grandpas
at times like these.
“Hey, let’s go into town and get some ice cream!”
The rest of the evening was awkward to say the least, but we
made it through OK.
The following morning, when her mom and dad came to get her,
I spoke with my son about his little girl’s imagination.
The look on my sons face revealed a far different story.
“Dad, ever since she was a newborn, the sound of a low
flying jet would make her cry. We thought it was just the loud noise, but the
crying was too intense, even for a baby. The doctor just said, “She’s got one
heck of a good set of lungs.””
“You should also know, we lied to you and mom, her first
words were not Daddy and Mommy like we told you, those came later. Her first
words were “Bad plane. Bad plane.”
When we get home, she will be getting some special help, because lately
she is waking up at night, saying some very… very…”
My son stopped, gathered himself for a moment, then
continued, “ This past Christmas Eve, she cried out in her sleep, “Help us!”
Not help me, help us, clear as day.”
“We should have warned you, we thought having her stay with
you over night, out here in the country, she would be far away, she would be
safe. We forgot about Television. We
should have told you. Sorry Dad.”
***
Good luck on your venture into the blogging world.
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