Picúr
My brother struggled with addiction and died from an overdose. For months, I cried endlessly—I loved him more than anyone in the world and couldn’t get past his death. One day, a friend called me to pick him up from the airport. On the way back, I took a different route because of traffic. On a building, a huge, colorful graffiti caught my eye. Among the bright shapes, in big letters it said: “Don’t worry Picúr, I’m still here.” He was the only one who called him Picúr.
The sentence
At a work party, a colleague’s wife—someone I didn’t even know—came up to me and said, “Peti, everything’s good here.” I stared at her, mouth open. She shook her head, confused, saying she didn’t understand why but felt she had to say it to me. I told her my brother had said before he died that if everything was good on the other side, he’d send a message. Nobody understood why we hugged each other, tears in our eyes.
Miri-815
That was my sister’s sign—her nickname from some video game or cartoon, I’m not sure. She was sick and died at eight. Almost twenty years later, I was walking on the beach with my fiancée, telling her about my sister—how much I loved her, how little time we had together, and how I hoped to meet her again after I died. Then my feet felt rooted to the sand. Written in the sand was: Miri-815
The feather
My sister had cancer and was very ill. We agreed that after she passed, she’d send me a sign as a bird’s feather to let me know she was okay. We also agreed I’d go to her favorite band’s concert and she’d send it there. She died two weeks later. The concert was a month and a half after that. I went, waited for the feather—but it never came. I went home and cried myself to sleep, disappointed. The next morning, I woke up to my husband cursing outside in the garden. When I went out, the lawn was covered with hundreds of pure white down feathers. I collapsed to the ground, sobbing. My husband never believed in the afterlife, but since I told him about my sister’s promise, he does.
The little girl
I was at a countryside fair with friends, four years after my mother passed. A little girl, about three years old, came up to me and said, “Your mom says the lavender smells just as sweet over there,” then ran off. I was rooted to the spot, speechless for minutes. My mom was Norwegian, and I grew up in Norway. Lavender was her favorite flower because of its scent. How did this Hungarian country child know that if not from my mom?
The power outage
My best friend Patti once joked that at her funeral she’d cut the power to lighten the mood. We were only in fifth grade when we talked about it. She died unexpectedly at 32 in a car accident. During the funeral, right in the middle of the priest’s speech, the power went out. I smiled through tears, knowing it was Patti.
Don’t go
As a backpacker, I was traveling through South America. I bought a bus ticket to the mountains but woke up at dawn hearing my grandmother—who had been dead for years—whisper, “Don’t go.” I wasn’t sure what to make of it but knew it wasn’t a dream. I spent the whole day on the beach, not going anywhere. That evening, the news reported the bus I had a ticket for had plunged into a ravine.
Bunny
My grandfather always called me Bunny. I adored him—he’d squeeze my hand, wink, and say, “Relax, Bunny.” Fifteen years after his passing, my two-year-old nephew ran up to me one evening, squeezed my hand, winked, and said, “Relax, Bunny.” He never called me that again.
The man
We moved into a new house, and during the first few weeks, I kept dreaming of a man standing in the garden. After several times, I wasn’t afraid anymore and followed him in the dream. He went to the far end of the garden and pointed at the base of a tree. The next day, I went there and started digging. I found a gold ring buried deep. I asked the neighbor where the previous owner was buried. I went to the cemetery, found his grave, and placed the ring next to the headstone. I never dreamed of the man again.
The lake
I fell into a lake, was drowning, and my heart stopped. I traveled through a tunnel of light, feeling peace, and met my grandmother—who had been dead for years—who told me to go back because it wasn’t my time yet; I had to raise Saci. I woke up in the hospital. Six years have passed since, and I have a daughter named Saci.
Cover photo: AlexSava/istockphoto.com
