This only happened once, but once was enough.
I was sitting in a courthouse and the lights were too bright,
the situation grim, and I had to wait on an uncomfortable bench.
I closed my eyes and figured it couldn't hurt to try praying.
That's when I saw my dead father, my dead grandmother,
and my dead first husband,
who in life, all hated each other,
but in death were different from my last memories of them.
My grandmother was taller, shimmery and glowing,
and I swear she had wings;
My father was laughing and his eyes were clear and without
pain, his arm around my first husband who had whisked me away
to Tijuana and years later died of a heroin overdose alone.
The large scar across his shoulder from a drunken accident
By this point, my hands were covering my eyes,
half wanting to see more, half not.
Without words, I was assured things would be all right
in my life, that where they were was unlike any place I could imagine,
some gentle laughter from all three at my disbelief,
some reassurance that love is not what it appears to be.
Then they were gone.