“Oh may I join the choir invisible

of those immortal dead who live again

in minds made better by their presence, live

in pulses stirred to generosity,

in deeds of daring rectitude”
– George Eliot

I call them the Choir Invisible, after George Eliot’s beautiful poem. They sing to me sometimes, they come in out of the sun, they ride on the breeze.

Sometimes, I am rewarded when I get up early and catch the morning light breaking over the hills and onto the farm and the pasture. It s holy light to me, and this morning, I heard from the dead, the Choir Invisible. I talk to the dead fairly often, sometimes I don’t even realize it. They come and they go here, but for me, they come riding in with the morning light with my angels, they touch my hear, whisper in my ear, light my soul from within.

There is nothing spooky about them, I realize it is the restless souls who come to talk to me, those with unfinished business, who want the last word, or who want to tell me something they couldn’t tell me when they lived in this world.

I heard from my father this morning, I never talked to him much when he was alive, we were not close. But he seems curious about me now, perhaps eager to try to make up for lost time. He was a good many in many ways, but not a reflective one. Perhaps he has time now. He wanted to talk baseball, as he always did, and politics, as he always did. Dad, I said, I can’t talk baseball and I hate to talk politics, it is sour and dispiriting thing. Oh, he said, but Emma is a Senior Editor at Sports Illustrated, he said, she is in charge of their baseball coverage.  My father could never accept what I said, he always thought it was wrong or misguided.

Yes, I know, I said, but I don’t talk baseball with her much either, she is too smart to fool or patronize. We talk movies and music.

I avoided talking to my father my whole life, I hated his incessant lectures, but somehow, here on the farm, with Maria in the farmhouse, it seems all right. I hope you are well, Dad, I said, sorry we weren’t better to each other. I know, he said, I’m sorry too, I did the best I could, he said, we are all crippled sometimes in our own day.

My friend Paul spoke with me this morning also, he committed suicide a few months ago and I wasn’t sure I would speak to him again or what I might say. Hey, he said, you look good. How are you? Good, I said, how about you? What can I say?, he said, rather sadly? You don’t have to say anything, I said. You don’t owe me a thing.

Well, we have to talk about it sometime, he said. That would be nice, I said. Do you mind if I hang out with the donkeys a bit?, he asked. I loved standing with them when I visited last time, they are peaceful and healing creatures. Not healing enough, I thought, then chastised myself.  Anytime, I said. Lots of people come by to heal with the donkeys.

I didn’t speak with Paul again but I felt his presence, he hung around for a bit, and I’m sure he noticed I was wearing his sweater, which Pamela gave me a month ago. I talked with my Uncle Harry, who got me interested in writing. You were the only one who encouraged me in this way, I said. Yes, he answered, I know. It worked. I never imagined blogs, he said. I’d love to have published one. Maria seems lovely. I’m glad you ignored the advice of all the old women in the family, who told you never to marry a gentile. Of course, they never knew what they were talking about.

My mother was sitting over in the  Adirondack chair, crushed by a falling tree. I love Maria, she said. You did well.  I always wanted to be an artist, she said…but your father. I know, Mom, I said, we don’t need to do this again. No one has ever loved you more than I did, she said. I don’t know if that’s true, Mom, but it doesn’t matter to me now. Life goes on, right? She nodded, tears in her eyes. You always had a life of regrets, I said, you could never be happy with what you had. No, she said, that is true. Are you happy? Yes, I said, I am. I am glad, she said. I see you don’t necessary get happy in the afterlife, you don’t necessarily change or let go. I’ve noticed this before.

Sometimes dead dogs come by in the morning, I see Rose running the sheep in the pasture, watching Fate or Red. Rose is never rueful or sorrowful, always professional, curious, eager to get to work. She is checking up on me, watching my back. Mother the barn cat appeared, she still chases mice in the meadow, and Simon loves Chloe, he sometimes hangs around with her. Watch it, I tell him, she will kick you in your head just like Lulu and Fanny did.

I am older now, one day I may come back here, a member of the Invisible Choir, I will still get to see Maria and begin the day with our morning chores.

It doesn’t seem strange to me any longer that I talk to the dead when the light breaks over the pasture, it seems quite natural. I believe the prophets who say people never really die, they live on in us and our children forever. I think that is true. I appreciate my time, talking to the Invisible Choir.