A strange thing happened to me this morning. Talk about weird occurrences.
As I often do while lying in bed between snoozes, I had a flash of inspiration. It was around 4 AM. I jumped out of bed, grabbed my laptop, and hurried to the dining room table. Before taking a seat, I switch on the kitchen light but leave the dining room light off. My concentration is sharpest when I’m writing in a dimly lit room. I set the laptop on the table, open it, and begin typing. I’m anxious to save the thoughts in my head to the hard drive before I forget them.
My fingers are burning up the keyboard, and I’m enjoying myself in the creativity zone. The early morning hours are my favorite time of the day; it’s when I am most inspired. It’s quiet outside and indoors. For the time being, no noisy emergency vehicles are flying up and down the streets with sirens wailing. No neighbors chattering or children playing loudly outside. The phone isn’t ringing. The TV is off. In my bliss, I recall a line from a Christmas story ā “not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.” I glance at the clock. It’s 5:12.
Satisfied that I have saved my story ideas to my hard drive, I click on Facebook and scroll down the page. Then, I click my photos. The first image my eyes land on is a favorite picture of my mother that I posted last Saturday in observance of what would have been her 95 birthday. I decide that I don’t want anyone to steal that photo. (Of course, I realize it’s already too late. Everyone knows that once a picture is posted on social media, it becomes fair game for anyone who wants to copy it.) Still, I decide to delete it. I select the image and tap the delete button on the keyboard. A message on the screen warns me, “Deleting this photo will also delete the post.” Additional instructions about how to delete just the photo and not the post are available if I click “Learn more,” but I don’t click it. Thanks, but no thanks for the warning Facebook. I delete the photo, my message, and all of the appreciated comments from my friends and relatives.
As soon as I delete the post before I even lift the finger that pressed the delete key, I hear a sound like something has fallen near me in the room. Without turning my head, I swing my eyes toward the sound. I am sitting at the dining room table in front of the door leading into the kitchen. The kitchen light behind me and the light on the laptop monitor is the only illumination in the otherwise dark room. And I know the only other person at home is asleep in the bedroom, so I ask myself, “What was that noise?”
I have a pair of 8-by-8-inch canvas African art pieces hanging near the door leading into my apartment, so I think that perhaps the hook came loose, and one of the pieces fell off the wall. I lean back in the chair, reach for the light switch on the wall and flip it on. Then I look toward the door. And I see it, the source of the noise.
The little wooden bird that perches on the console table with my other ornamental animals, a parakeet, and a turtle (my menagerie, I call it), has fallen to the floor. I wonder, how did that happen? Is it possible that the stems on my philodendron plant had a sudden growth spurt and tipped the bird over? Nah. But maybe so. A few days ago, while watering my plant, I picked up a stem extending to the floor and gently laid it over the bird. The stem on my house plant isn’t strong enough to knock a wooden bird or any other inanimate object off that table. I’ve got to stop reading Stephen King.
My rational and imagination wrestle over the issue.
Fact ā Immediately after I deleted my mother’s photo, the bird fell (or was knocked off the table by something). Nothing has ever fallen off of that table except one time after a house guest accidentally bumped the table while walking past it. So, how did the bird get off the table and onto the floor? It didn’t fly.
My mother, for religious reasons, did not observe birthdays. I do. Last Saturday, I posted a photo with a message acknowledging mom’s birthday on Facebook. The post generated several kind comments and “Happy Heavenly Birthday” remarks from my friends and relatives.
Imagination ā During the days that the birthday message for my mother was posted on Facebook, could it have been transmitted beyond the grave? Did mother see it?
“You know I don’t observe birthdays.” She used to repeat that so often I can still hear her saying it. “But ma, I do,” I’d reply. Did mom’s spirit flick the bird off the table as a playful yet ghostly way of showing me that she knows I continue to acknowledge her birthday?
Okay, enough with the spookiness. Still, I need an explanation. That bird has perched on that table in the same spot for years and has never flown the coop, so to speak. No one was stomping downstairs in the hallway of the building. There was no large truck rumbling by outside. I didn’t feel an earthquake, tremor, or anything that would cause the building to vibrate. The only movement in the room was my fingers tapping on the keyboard. No matter how I try to come up with a reason for how the bird wound up on the floor, I can not. Guess I’ll have to settle for it being a fluke. Stuff happens.
Halloween is two days away. I wonder, are the ghosts (even the holy ones) and goblins already haunting?