Worthy Witness

Our house was built on a concrete foundation, all that was left when the fire took the two-story house where one of the men died in the flames.  My mother always hated the house, even though it was the largest in that country neighborhood, and even though it had two acres where we could run and play.

Mom had a needle on a string that she held over each of us when we married, a ritual that some of us would not agree to.  As I remember, if the needle went in a circle, there would be a girl; if the needle went back and forth, it would be a boy.  Twins would be designated by the needle stopping on its own accord and then starting to move again, almost immediately.  We watched her with hawkish eyes to see if she manipulated the needle.  The needle stopped on its own each accord after going round or sideways, determining sex, and she would then begin again to determine the number of children.  Through the years, we found her needle predictions to be correct for each of us.   We often questioned if it was the needle or Mom who had the power.

There were strange things that went on in our house, particularly in the cubby holes that were in the two second-floor bedrooms.  The storage areas were created under the roof; it was dead space that ran the length of the room, one on either side in each bedroom.   Our vivid imaginations told us that the cubby holes were alive; they held the spirit of the man who died, and some nights we would swear we heard his voice, the wind whispering through the eaves, coming through its louvers.  My Mom was very sick one time, and she decided to use our room to sleep instead of her room downstairs.  Three of us slept in the other room for two nights.  I don’t remember what she was sick with, but the second night we heard her scream.  We went running across the hall, and she was standing at the foot of the bed, her finger-pointing to the open cubby.  Its light was on.

Mom had seen her mother, my grandmother, that night; she had seen her bright brown eyes and brilliant white hair.  She insisted that it was not a dream, that her mother was in the room stooped over and then straightening out of the cubby.  Early that morning, we had a call that Grandma had died.

Years later, the idea came to my sister that she could make a rocking chair in the other room rock by using her mind.  When we talked about it, I mentioned that my mother’s lamp in the guest room lit itself whenever I had deep thoughts about her.  We wondered if we should tell the others; if perhaps they, too, had some type of power.  We thought better of it, and decided not to.  We never talk about whether or not she rocks the chair anymore, and I still have Mom’s lamp that lights every now and then.

Inspired by Jonathan Blais “Cooby Hole.”