At Least They're Committed

Not long before Dante was born, a woman told me the story of how her father hadn’t lived long enough to meet his grandson — she was pregnant when he died — and she was heartbroken. But then, she said, as the son grew, he would point to the ceiling, down the hall or into the empty corners of the room and say, “Paw-Paw!” They thought it was cute, but it wasn’t until months later when they were looking through a photo book that the boy squealed and pointed to her dead father’s photo, exclaiming, “Paw-Paw!!!” Her father was there after all.

Isn’t that the sweetest story?

And so it was that when Dante started pointing to the ceiling, down the hall or to the empty corners of the room — his little finger going back and forth as if something was flying past — while saying “Paw-Paw!” we found it quite endearing. “Is Paw-Paw here?” we’d smile and look into the emptiness. “Tell Paw-Paw hello for us!”

Open-minded individuals who have witnessed birth and death — one, the other or both — become aware that we are guided into this world, and guided out. In my dad’s case, his favorite uncle, Buddy, came for him. And if you’ve noticed, Declan stares into those corners, smiles at the ceiling and focuses over our shoulders seemingly at nobody. As babies get more used to this three-dimensional plane, the brain starts blocking out what it has seen. The guides fade from our lives and our memories, which is as it is supposed to be.

Dante played and laughed and talked — in a language only babies understand — to PawPaw. This adorable little routine went on for months . . . and months . . . and months.

If you’ve ever tried to draw on a computer using a mouse, you know it’s quite challenging. Thus when Dante watched his older brother Darian drawing a stormtrooper, he emphatically pointed and said, “PAW-PAW!” I looked at the art and, well, with the white outline and the large black eyes, it looked very much like the worst kind of stereotypical ghost.

It was one of those things that makes you go, “Hmmmm.”

We knew Paw-Paw had been hanging around too long, as if clinging to Dante’s life force, but when Dante started crawling onto our laps, curling into a ball, his brow furrowed, his voice a little more than a whisper, pointing and saying “paw-paw” we knew this situation had to stop. Paw-Paw had to go.

One of the things I find most endearing about Darrell, Dante’s dad, is that even though he comes across as skeptical, he is observant and he will change his way of thinking based on such observations. (His other-than-normal experiences are an entirely different chapter.)

After about three days of Dante being openly frightened of Paw-Paw, it was time to take action. I was sitting on the couch, with our little guy curled on my lap. “How do we get him out of the house?” I asked. Darrell snatched Dante away, holding him closely, standing firm in the middle of the living room on 10th Avenue.

“Paw-Paw, you must go!” he said authoritatively. “Paw-Paw you must leave this house and you cannot cling to Dante. You cannot stay here. It is time for you to go . . .”

Or something like that.

Dante only saw Paw-Paw once after that — standing outside the house and looking longingly into the living room window.