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When I was ten years old, my mother passed after an unexpected and short illness that lasted about a week. I remember her being violently ill and in pain, and then she seemed to get a little better. None of us expected her to die, that thought was the furthest thing from our minds.

Our belief that everything was going to be okay, that she was going to get better and be fine was shattered in the middle of the night the early morning hours of August 31, 1980. There was the sound of sirens, and feet moving through the house, talking and radio static, weird shadows moving under the edge of the doorway. Then there was silence.

My sister came and told us to stay in bed, and we waited until my stepfather came home again and roused all of us from our beds. He then told us that my mother had passed away and gone to live in heaven. The next week I was in a daze and all I knew was that I wanted my mother back, alive and happy in our home.

Three days after the funeral, after all my mother's belongings had been gone through and removed from the house by female relatives, all of her perfume included, and I was lying in bed. I was having a hard time sleeping, and I would doze off, but it was not a restful sleep.

Around three in the morning, I heard a creak from down the hall. I recognized it immediately. It was the sound of my mother's chair in the living room, a creak I was very familiar with. Then I heard footsteps coming down the hall, and they stopped outside my bedroom door. I suddenly was overwhelmed by the scent of my mother's favorite perfume, Emeraude, none of which we still had in the house, and even if we had, there was no reason why someone should have been walking around the house at three in the morning with it on.

The scent enveloped me and I felt warm and safe and very much loved. I lay there listening to the footsteps walk to my brothers' room and then to my older sister's room, as if my mother was checking on all of us children, and then they walked back to the room next to mine and they stopped outside my mother and stepfather's room.

The next morning, I wasn't sure whether or not it was a dream, but I was confident at the least that my mother still loved us and that she was watching over us, a very comforting thought to a ten year old child. Some time went on, and I began to think that it had all been a dream.

A few years after my mother passed, my real father was located and I went to live with him. My parents had not had the greatest of relationships

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