While I was driving to the dealership to pick up a set of vehicle license plates which had just arrived (I purchased a car ten days ago), my phone screen displayed an incoming call from my husband, Ian. I used my virtual assistant to answer, Ian’s voice projecting over the speaker. He was leaving an antique mall in town, and was anxious to share an encounter that happened only minutes earlier.
As Ian was walking through the store, he spotted a small Black memorabilia porcelain figurine on a shelf full of similar objects. The quaint figure depicted a smiling woman in nineteenth century dress and apron, holding a slice of watermelon (we love memorabilia from this era). As my husband admired the object, turning it over in his hand gently, he heard motion come from behind him.
An old woman in her eighties was standing there, her back slightly hunched. She was wearing glasses with thick, black plastic frames; long, stringy salt and pepper hair dangled gingerly around her wrinkled face, resting upon the shoulders of a purple crocheted coat with beige buttons. From beneath the hem of the coat, baggy dark blue pajama pants covered frail legs, crumpled upon the tops of black slippers. She steadied herself with a cane, and smelled of fruity wine.
In a feeble voice, the old woman asked Ian what day and time it was. “It’s Monday, February tenth,” he replied, then checked his phone for the time. It was 2:45pm. Suddenly the woman began to cry, tears tracing the field of wrinkles on her cheeks. It was at this point that Ian realized she was dead.
“I have to get home in time for dinner,” she sobbed, her brow furrowing with worry. She was disoriented and afraid, unsure of where she was and how to get back to a home which was now a distant memory.
It was at this point when a store employee approached Ian, eyeing him skeptically. The associate asked him who he was talking to. Realizing that he had attracted unwanted attention by communicating with a dead person no one else could see, Ian apologized and covered his actions by telling the salesperson that he was just thinking aloud. Concerned, the store employee backed off a bit, but made no effort to hide their suspicion. As Ian migrated away from the cluttered rows of shelving, the ghost of the old woman followed, her choked sobs and fruity scent close behind.
Feeling uncomfortable under the watchful eye of the salesperson, and unable to do anything about the spirit of the old woman without drawing even more scrutiny, Ian made his way to the store’s exit. As he passed through the glassed double doors, he looked back over his shoulder. The ghost stopped in her tracks, unable to leave the store. As the door settled back into its frame, Ian could see the old woman staring at him longingly from behind the reflective surface as he made his way into the parking lot.
We plan a return to the store soon. If this spirit is attached to the figurine Ian was admiring, we intend to buy it and bring the old woman home with us, so that we can release her soul from this plane and reunite her with those whom she loves, and who love her.