Memorial Day is a day of remembrance. A day to honor heroic members of the armed forces who served so the rest of us can live free, even if that freedom allows us to protest the very circumstances of their sacrifice. It’s also a day to remember our loved ones, ancestors, and friends who passed over to the next existence.

Many people dispute the theory of afterlife or a soul. I’m not here to contest their beliefs just as I hope they co-exist amicably with mine.

My blog today is about the line between life and death. Most of us can only speculate about what lies on the other side. I say most of us because I truly believe a gifted few are privy to things that defy explanation.

Let me tell you about an experience I had. Afterwards, if you’d like to voice your comments, I’d love to read them but let’s be civil. This is a public forum.

I had one of those nights where the blues fade into black. Memorial Day was looming, I missed my mom, and could only decorate her grave in another state by having my son do the honors. She and I used to enjoy such great chats. She was a kind, loving wife, devoted mother and staunch ally to the downtrodden. Mom brought home stray kids like some people bring home abandoned animals. She and Dad weren’t rich. We lived modestly. Today I look back through an adult’s eyes and I’m astounded at how far she could stretch a dollar.

There were times after I left home when I should have been more attentive. More aware of the personal difficulties she was enduring. But as a single parent trying to raise two kids, I was oblivious to anything outside my own small world. Even later in life as Mom suffered the last stages of dementia with a plethora of health issues, I sometimes grumbled when the nursing home phoned late at night and asked if I could come down. Mom was agitated and I was the only one who could restore her calm.

So prior to Memorial Day, I became immersed in the pangs of  guilt and my selfishness, wishing I could have a “do-over” and right some wrongs. I love my mom. I wish I could tell her how much she meant to me.

Wiping away the tears, I searched for a diversion. I’m addicted to Words With Friends and thought it might be a good choice. I played a round and waited for my tray to refill. The first four letters were ALTA – my mother’s first name. I’ve played countless rounds of this scrabble game and seldom does a tray fill with letters that immediately spell a word. Crazy, huh?

It gets better. I told a few people about it. My kids. Hubby. Friends. They all agree Mom was reaching out. I’m a skeptic who wants to believe so I leaned toward their summation even as part of me poo-pooed the idea. (I think it was the rational side that sneaks up and taunts me from time to time.) The next day I go back to the game, play another round, and wait for the letter tray to refill. The first four letters are CROW. My mom’s last name.

Coincidence? I don’t think so. I get goose bumps every time I think about it. Maybe it’s just my own emotional need for validation. And if so, I’m okay with that because I feel warm and happy – like I’ve just had a great visit with Mom.

Happy Memorial Day.