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My parents were inseparable, and when Father died Mother’s grief caused her to go from 190 pounds to 114 pounds in weight. I was the youngest child and was Father’s favorite, perhaps because I resembled Mother. His pet name for me- never used by others-was “Babe.”
On night in May, 1937, when Father had been dead for two years, I was waked by his voice calling, ” Babe, Babe!” “Yes, Father,” I answered, I spoke so loudly that I woke my husband. ” You must have been dreaming of your father, ” he said, “I heard you mention him.”
” I wasn’t dreaming,” I protested.” he called me and I know his voice.”
A few minutes later I heard Father called me again and I answered. My husband suggested I sleep elsewhere so that he could get some rest, so I lay down on the davenport in the front room.
I had just settled myself when I heard Father call again. Then he spoke lovingly in his normal, familiar voice. “Don’t be afraid, Babe, In two weeks I’m coming for your mother. I came back to tell you so you won’t be frightened when it happens.
In the morning I told my husband about the incident and he scoffed at my story. A week later Mother came to visit me, and the next morning, when I carried a breakfast tray to her room, I found her unconscious. I was frozen with panic but I remembered Father’s words and grew calm.
Mother remained unconscious for over a week and the doctor told us that the end was near. I was standing at her bedside with my husband, his cousin, and his pastor when suddenly Mother opened her eyes.
She looked directly at me, and said clearly, “Daughter, step aside, You are standing in front of your father.” We all looked around but saw nothing. The pastor took her hand and said gently, “Mr. Saunders isn’t here, my dear.”
“Yes, he is, she said firmly. “He has come to take me home, to our house where we lived for thirty-five years.” Glancing at me she continued, “You had better pack my things and stop standing in front of your Father.”
I moved obediently.
“My,” she sighed, smiling her old, gay smile, “how wonderful my Genie looks. I’d be glad to stay with you,” she apologized to me, “but I’d rather go home. We’ll go soon now.”
A half hour later she died.
At Mother’s funeral service, the minister told of this incident and said, “I am no spiritualist, but I really believe Mr. Saunders came and took his beloved wife home.”
My husband pressed my hand to tell me he believed it too.
Alice S. Napier