The Man Who Stays in My Room

It has been almost eleven years since my grandfather died. He fought a long and difficult illness in the final months, and it pained him to know he would likely never see my second child, a little girl. In his last days, he lived with my grandmother in the house where I grew up. He passed away peacefully in the room that once belonged to my sister.

Last spring, my grandmother decided to move to a smaller place. My husband and I bought her old house, our own childhood home. We worked for months, fixing it up and making it new again. One afternoon, I was by myself, painting the walls of my sister’s former room. This was to be the new bedroom for my two boys.

I was standing on a stool, reaching too far to get a corner, when I felt myself tipping over. My heart jumped into my throat as I started to fall. But then, a sudden and gentle pressure pushed me back onto my feet on the stool. The air felt still and strange. I whispered my thanks to the quiet air, feeling a familiar presence.

Just yesterday, my youngest son looked up from his toys and said, “Mama, the nice man sits in the chair sometimes.”