"When you're weary, feeling small, when tears are in your eyes, I'll dry them all, I'm on your side"

All day, I watch the clock with a nervous excitement. As the hours count down, my eyes are drawn to the black digital screen on my wrist with a higher frequency. Soon, the hours are minutes that whittle way at the same rate in which a snail moves. With mere minutes remaining, I nervously pace the house, making sure the presentation is perfect for the visitors I’m expecting. I hope to physically see them. Hold them. Hug them.

The house is quiet. A candle is lit on the kitchen table. I’m ready with the same anticipation in which a child wakes up to magic on Christmas morning. In my case, it’s been weeks and the time has finally arrived. An unknown SUV parks in front of my house. “She’s here!” I exclaim to no one.

When she enters my home, she’s nothing as I imagined. She’s tall, my height. She dressed professionally and carries a suitcase-like bag. She’s stunning. Her personality is warm, like I’ve known her forever and not at all like I’ve forgotten her first name.

She situates herself in my living room on the loveseat. She asks permission to take off her shoes. I agree and do the same. She takes out a clipboard and blank unlined paper. With a borrowed pen, she asks my name. “Brandy,” I state and begin to spell it.

“No. I mean your full name. Is that your true name?”

“Oh. No,” I say, curious as to what just happened. “Brandice.” I spell it out.

“And this is your first experience with a medium psychic?”

“Yes,” I answer.

She tells me she can feel my giddiness and excitement and it’s the best part of her job. She runs through her rules, which I immediately forget. She tells me there are certain people with her. At the mention of my dad, I lose all composure. The proverbial floodgates are useless. I bawl uncontrollably. She tells me to grab tissues, which I don’t have. At her insistence, I get a roll of toilet paper, two ply.

The cat and dog sit quietly by my side, cuddling with me.

She tells me there are several others with him, including my best friend. The stream of tears is unstoppable, like a full-strength hurricane slamming into land.

At first, the messages aren't clear cut. She doesn't relay direct words or names, but rather clues, asking what makes sense to me in terms of numbers and dates. For example, "Does September mean anything to you in regards to a birthday or death day?" Because she had been just talking about my maternal grandmother, I answer "no."

She tells me my father is coming through and showing her visions of halos and disciples when trying to give his name. Eventually, she asks me. I answer, "Patrick."

"Okay, that makes sense," she says. "He's boisterous. Loud. Funny."

Through the course of the session, I hear from four loved ones: two friends and two family members. She relays their personalities, messages, and memories. Her voice is uplifting. The signs she gives me from each of the spirits is wild. The things she says, she shouldn’t know. To close the session, she tells me the item I have in my pocket. Someone gave her hints, insisted it was there.

The seventy-five minute session physically drained both of us, but I couldn’t have asked for a better way to spend my evening.