Lavender, Hummingbirds, and AC/DC
Before she died, my friend Beth assured us all that she’d appear from the Afterlife in the form of lavender and hummingbirds. I suspected she was joking, given that those tropes seemed too ethereal for our shared sense of naughty humor. “Couldn’t she” I wondered, “appear in the form of, say, Justin Trudeau or a young Leonard Cohen?”
On the day she died, a small cluster of friends gathered around her bed. Anders, the Swede, wore denim shorts and an AC/DC T-shirt, so when it was suggested we all sing, my husband started to hum the opening riff of “You Shook Me All Night Long.” Our choral effort was off-key, and we forgot a few lines, but it was heartfelt.
I swear, Beth smiled.
The next morning, I woke early. With no more arrangements to make or people to inform, I decided to just drive to my office for the day. I craved a routine or some sense of normalcy—anything beyond such a crippling sense of grief and loss. I could not imagine a world without Beth in it.
So, I dressed as usual, packed a coffee mug, and fastened the seat belt. As I reversed down my driveway, I could not help but think of Beth. 47. Cancer. Mom to a 12 year old boy and wife to a loving and kind man. Writer. Friend. Hilarious. In a hospice bed. Dead.
I pushed the radio’s power button.
There was a pause and then a crackle on the radio as I shifted into first gear.
That’s when I heard it. Not the flutter of hummingbirds or the sweet scent of lavender, but from the radio, at 6 am on a Monday: AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long.”
As that unmistakable opening riff played, I felt goosebumps, and then experienced a very warm sensation on my arms. Then I started to laugh. I laughed and cranked the volume to top level.
It was my sign.
“Well done, my friend,” I said aloud.
As I grooved to the music on my way to do my remaining (literal and figurative) work on this planet, I knew Beth was ok. And, not just ok, I knew whatever form she now took, she was beside me with her sense of humor intact.