I fell asleep that night with my purple pen and journal in my hand, tear (ok, and drool) stains splattered the page. I’d written out all my frustrations. That’s tiring stuff, that is.

I woke in the middle of the night, as I often do, but this time, sitting as if waiting on the edge of my bed was a ghost.

The ghost, the lady from Notre Dame. The one who looked at me.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” I whispered contemptuously.
“You needn’t speak. When I was alive, I spoke French. Language only gets in the way after death. You’ve a spirit in you. We spirits use a deeper, primary communication. Something humans have forgotten to do. Or perhaps have not yet learned.“

I rubbed my eyes.

“Like this?” I thought to the lady.
“Getting there. Your wish has been granted. Aren’t you happy that your beloved can see?”
I snorted.”Getting there. I only wish that he was happy with it. This is all so sudden. For us both…”
“He’ll come around. He must.”

And with that she was gone.