The loud rap on the door startled me out of a deep sleep. I shoved my pillow over my head and burrowed deeper into my lavender scented sheets and tried to reclaim my dream.

When the pounding started again, I sat up and turned on the lamp, screwing my eyes shut to block out the sudden glare of light “Can’t somebody answer the door?” I yelled, “Mom? Dad? Howard?”

The banging started again; I threw back the covers, bounced out of bed and strode across my room like an enraged tigress. I struggled into my robe as I stormed down the dark hallway. I burst into my parent’s room full of righteous indignation but drew up short when I saw their empty bed. I walked closer to the bed to peer at the radio alarm clock on the night stand; it read 3:05. I stared uncomprehendingly at the still made up bed, snapping to when the knocking started again; louder this time and more insistent.

My anger receded; now I was overtaken with a sense of alarm playing at the edges of my consciousness; a foreboding I tried to push aside as I ran down the hall to my brother’s room. His light was on, but he was sleeping and oblivious to the incessant knocking at the front door. His favorite Beach Boy album was still spinning around on the turntable; the needle making a little scratching noise as it bumped up against the label. The smell of stale beer rejuvenated my anger. I stomped over to the stereo and dragged the needle, scratching and screeching, across all the grooves of Pet Sounds. “Get up,” I screamed. But it was useless; he was passed out cold.

I was fully awake by then, but still a little disoriented and confused. I hurried towards the front door, pulling my robe tight around me and cinching the belt; buttressing my mind to shut out the chaotic chatter that was now competing with the banging on the door. Mom and dad said they’d be home by 11. Where could they be? Something’s wrong. Maybe they forgot their key. Nobody knocks on the door at three in the morning. Just calm down, everything is fine. I slowed my steps when I heard an unfamiliar man’s voice call out, “Hello is anyone home?”

My mind registered the incongruous juxtaposition of hurrying down the hallway with panic and alarm, when only the morning before I had taken the same route with a spring in my step and happy heart; the morning before I was still euphoric over my father’s safe return from Viet Nam three days earlier. During the year he was gone, my mom, brother and I were wary of every knock on the door. Any unexpected visitor would evoke a sudden silence and apprehensive glances at each other before one of us, by some unspoken mutual agreement, went to open the heavy oak door. We didn't acknowledge our shared fear of unexpected visitors; it was not unreasonable or macabre. Dad was the skipper of a patrol boat on the Mekong Delta, fighting a war that had already claimed more than 36,000 men. All of us understood that unforeseen visitors might be wearing military uniforms, and that they wouldn’t be arriving with good news. I don’t know about my mother and brother, but I always thought that knock would occur in the middle of night. But the nameless dread that had permeated our lives for one year left us the instant my dad came home.

And so it was that this nocturnal knocking caught me wholly unprepared to see a man in uniform. He wasn’t military though, he was a state trooper.

"Um, hello miss.”

I looked at him but did not return the greeting.’

“Do you live here?”

I could only nod my answers to his first barrage of questions about the names of my parents and my relationship to them.

“How old are you? Are you alone?”

“I’m 17 and my brother is 18. He’s here, but he’s asleep. I couldn’t wake him up when I heard you knocking.”

His face registered resignation and disappointment. He took off his hat and said, “I’m afraid there's been an accident.”

"Don't," I blurted out. I held up my hand as if warding off an attacker. "Don't say anything else." I backed up a step, as though he was about to attack me.

His eyes were sad; blue like my father’s eyes, but crinkled at the edges. His face, though impassive, registered pain. He drew a soft, long breath.

“Miss,” he said. A gentle voice. A kind voice. A matter of fact voice.
I remained rooted to the spot, my eyes darting wildly in every direction. It was a visceral reaction; a frantic search for a way out; a way to prevent the conversation from continuing. I knew with all my being that my life would no longer be the same if I allowed this man to say what he had come to say.

"Miss," he repeated in a plaintive southern drawl, “May I come in?”

I shook my head “no.” In contrast to his rhythmic voice; mine had left me; all I could do was shake my head back and forth. It was a slow and steady motion, belying my jumbled, incoherent and frantic thoughts banging against each other.

"Miss, please. If you would allow me to step inside. I think you should sit down."

I remained standing, resolute; my mind a whirlwind, scrambling to find a way to stop him from talking. As long as he doesn’t say anything, nothing has changed. I wouldn't let him in. He shifted from foot to foot, turning his ridiculously large trooper hat around in his hands, slowly fingering the brim. I avoided looking at his face, afraid to see compassion, afraid I'd lose my grip, afraid I couldn't stop him from speaking. I fixated on his hands instead. I stared at his hands with unreasonable intensity and let my thoughts tumble around and tear at each other. I just can’t let him speak. If he doesn’t speak, nothing will be different. Just don’t let him talk. Don’t let him talk. I concentrated hard on those gnarly hands as he turned the hat around and around.

A whisper of a breeze glided around us both and suddenly I caught the faint scent of Old Spice. I quickly looked up and beyond the trooper. Standing on tiptoe with wild excitement and relief, I craned my neck to peer around him, trying to see the walkway up to the house. Surely it was mom and dad coming home. The scent from that familiar milky white bottle with the blue sailboat briefly conjured up childhood memories of me shaking out a few drops of the after shave into Dad’s hands, and watching him splash it on his neck. He always ended the ritual with two loud slaps to his face, making me giggle every time. My anticipation was short lived. The trooper brought me back to reality.

“Miss, let’s go inside now, please.” He spoke just above a whisper. There was a note of tired resignation in his words. All hope left me then; I held my breath so I wouldn’t smell the imposter cologne and dropped my gaze once again to dully watch his hands continue their rhythmic chafing.

We squared off for another few moments; I staring at his hands, and him silently worrying the brim of his hat. I flinched when he cleared his throat. I jerked my head up as he took a breath and let his pent up words tumble out and over each other, "I'm so sorry I have to tell you this, but your parents are dead. They died in a car accident.”

Despite the tumultuous emotions that started in my parent’s empty bedroom a few minutes before, I underwent an instantaneous change of demeanor. A preternaturally calmness settled over me. I looked at the trooper and simply asked, “Was anyone else hurt?”

His hands stilled on his hat; he hesitated for a moment before he answered. “No, miss. They went off the road on I-95 and hit a sign. If it’s any comfort, they did not suffer.”

I cocked my head, all senses on alert. “What kind of sign?” Once again, hope surged and sent my thoughts in wild directions. In my mind’s eye I pictured a speed limit sign or a littering prohibited sign; surely crashing into a little sign couldn’t have caused them to die. That’s it, I thought. It’s all a big mistake.

He cleared his throat and started turning the hat’s brim around and around again. “It said Rest Area One Mile.” Now it was he who averted my eyes.

I cannot predict with certainty what my life would have been like had my parents not died that night. But I am quite sure it would have taken a different trajectory. I would have gone to college right after graduation as planned. I wouldn’t have married so early and had children so young.

But I am also convinced that had they lived, I would not have embarked on my lifelong spiritual quest to find answers to the mystery and meaning of life and death. My mom and dad gave me the gift of seeing me—and letting me see them—one more time after they died. Very few people in my life know this story, for I have learned not to tell it to most. I can’t be bothered with naysayers and armchair psychologists. I have told them what I am telling you: I know what I know. What happened one week later served as the catalyst that eradicated the despair I felt on the darkest night of my life.

One week after I buried them, my parents appeared to me in spirit. I didn’t try to conjure them up; I didn’t even believe in such things. But as I sat huddled in the corner of the sofa, my eyes swollen from a fresh bout of crying, I heard my mom calling my name. I looked up and saw them slowly materialize. It still astonishes me that I had no fear. I was amazed and fascinated, yet suffused with an inexplicable knowingness. They did not “become” solid; they were ethereal, yet defined. We spoke telepathically, a word and a concept I had no knowledge of before that night. All I knew was that we had a conversation, but none of us spoke out loud. The entire encounter lasted no more than a few minutes, but their manifestation and their encouraging words in that brief interlude between worlds lifted the heavy burden of near paralyzing grief that had been consuming me since the night they had perished.

They didn’t impart the secrets of the universe or explain the mystery of God. They told me what I expect any parent would say to their grieving child: they were without pain and they were happy. They told me they loved me. They explained that coming to me was very difficult; that the strength of my despair helped pull them through to me. But they also said they wouldn’t be back. The last words they said were, “We have to go now. We have much work to do.” With that, they faded away. They didn’t disintegrate, they simply faded out and then they were gone.

The brief but profound exchange has been a constant source of knowingness, comfort and awe. Their final gift, the brief lifting of that mysterious veil to another dimension, bestowed upon me a wisdom and moral compass that I’m not so sure I would have ever obtained otherwise.

That one microscopic speck of time enlightened me and informed my world-view—of what really matters and what is meaningless. I didn’t turn into a saint on that night; I did not then, or ever, become a shining beacon of morality and kindness for all to follow. No, I am still far from perfect and I don’t expect to find Nirvana before I pass over. But when I catch myself moaning and groaning about trivial matters, I don’t dwell on them for long; my memory kicks in and reminds me that I am privileged to have borne witness to a beautiful and mysterious truth. Knowing since I was a teenager that only our physical bodies die has provided a perspective that I have used as a guide to navigate the spectacular and mundane experiences of my life. What transpired that night imbued me with an intangible, but unshakable, belief in an infinite universe, and has served to light my path through my very human existence.