Many people are born with gifts, my mother told me. Some are fabulous singers, talented artists, or dancers. Some are good at math, some can write stories and weave together words to create a beautiful picture. Seemingly for no rhyme or reason, people just have a natural knack or skill of some sorts. That’s just how people are. And I am no different.

There is a gift in my family that runs deep in our bloodline. One that is passed on from firstborn to firstborn. We are Soul Gazers. We can see souls.

But as I’ve gotten older, I’m not exactly sure why it is considered a gift. It seems to have little effect on how I live from day to day. Sure, it’s interesting to see the many shapes and forms souls take in people. The luminescent creatures trapped in people’s chest might even be described as beautiful to some. But such beauty I think is wasted on me.

You see, Souls are often mentally pictured as ghostly forms of a person. But that isn’t quite right. Souls actually take the form of metallic glowing animals trapped in people’s rib cages, waiting for the day they are freed. 

But they never struck me as beautiful or pretty. When you grow up seeing such things all your life, it simply becomes a part of your scenery. Such a sight becomes mundane. We have souls and they take different forms. But seeing them doesn’t change anything. We still die. In fact, to this day I find such a gift rather useless.

My mother finds my somewhat emotionally removed sentiments shocking, being a rather emotional person by nature. She says I must have taken after father though I don’t know how since I never knew him in the first place.

Whenever we would see a free-roaming soul when we walk the streets, she would always point and whisper sadly to me, “I wonder who that was?”

I never said it aloud, but I didn’t think it mattered? Whoever it was they have been reduced to a orange glowing fox, or a violet mocking bird that has crossed our path. There’s no way of knowing who they were so why speculate?

“Jean,” she would often say to me. “Each soul has worth.”

But worth never saved them. What did it all matter?

~*~

“Jean,” my mother said one morning at breakfast. “I have a favor to ask.”

I stirred my oatmeal quietly, waiting for her to continue. I guess she was waiting for a sort of response because she didn’t go on, though she still looked at me expectantly from across the table.

“What is it?” I asked, a little suspicious. “Not more weeding the garden I hope.”

“No, more important than that. Do you remember your grandmother? Grandmother Violet.”

“Dad’s mom?” The question caught me off guard. I hardly ever heard about my dad’s family. In fact, I don’t think we had seen an extended member from that side for almost three years. With dad’s absence, I always assumed they felt little reason to make contact. And I assumed his mother was no different.

“Was that the lady who had that awful cat that scratched me when I was little?”

“Venus,” mom laughed. “She still has her you know. May not for much longer though…” she trailed off. 

“Good riddance, I say,” I shrugged. “She wasn’t a very nice cat.”

“That’s not the point, Jean.”

“Then what is?”

“Grandma is sick and I thought it would be nice of you to go visit her,” my mom told me earnestly, finally getting to the point.

“With what?”

“You don’t have to be sick with anything particular to hospitalized at her age,” Mom explained, clearing her dishes from the table.

“Ah. Oldness.”

“Jean!” my mom said sharply. “Show some respect.”

“Is she going to die soon?” I picked up my oatmeal bowl and poured the remainder of it into our scrap bucket that rested beside the sink.

“The Doctors aren’t sure. One can’t rightly know with older people sometimes. It could go either way.”

“But why would she enjoy my company?” I queried. “She never seemed to like me very much.”

“Oh, of course, she did! Do you not remember that she was the one who gifted you that lovely keyboard on your tenth birthday?”

“Oh yeah,” My thoughts turned to the dusty little instrument sitting in the corner of my room. It had been forever since I played it. “Well, she didn’t come to visit often to how I played it,” I couldn’t help but add.

“Grandma Violet has been declining for a while, it makes sense that she hasn’t been able to visit very much.”

“I thought it was because she didn’t approve of you and dad,” I said this quietly and under my breath but my mother heard all the same. I could tell she thought about getting on to me but decided it against it. Instead, she only heaved one of her signature sighs then added with a shake of her head, “Ever the cynic.”

I shrugged again. She wasn’t wrong.

~*~

My Mom was nice enough to drop me off at the hospital on her way to a meeting on the other side of town, telling me she’d pick me up back on her way through. Admittedly, I was a little disappointed, expecting my mother to come with me when I was reunited with my Grandmother Violet.

“But what are we going to talk about?” I asked her as I slid out of the passenger seat and onto the sidewalk. “I doubt me and someone as old as her have something in common.”

“Jean if you don’t straighten up…”

“Alright, okay, I’m sorry,” I apologized hastily, casting as gaze towards the hospital’s front doors. My gaze fell upon a flock of glowing soul birds pecking near the entrance, chirping and flitting about. Then my attention diverted to the bushes where I saw a silver glowing fox chase a blue one out of its hiding place and out into the busy street. They ran through a passing car, giving no indication to even noticing the vehicle that would have otherwise smashed a normal forest creature like them to bits.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” my mother said to me quietly, now out of the car as well and standing beside me on the sidewalk. “Hospitals always have so many souls about. If I had a camera that could see them too I’d capture.”

“Why do they linger here?” I wanted to know. “Most take to the sky and leave everything behind. Why do these choose to stay?”

“Not all, Jean. Just some. And why not?” she gestured to the group of birds, chirping to one another. “They have plenty of company here. As you can imagine, many souls pass over here. So of course there are some that move on and scour the world as they wish, but some choose to stay right here.”

I wasn’t sure why, but the sight evoked a strange sensation in my chest. A sort of sharp feeling. But I shook it off. I had a reason for being here.

“Well, I guess I’d better get going,” I told my mother, craning my head up to kiss her cheek goodbye. 

“That’s right!” my mother returned to the present, the faraway misty look in her eye gone. “I don’t want to be late to the shareholders meeting! Be good Jean and I’ll pick you up here later this afternoon.”

And with that, she hopped into the car and drove down the street, though I noted she did so slowly, giving the flock of birds time to flit out of the way, even though we both knew that they would just pass right through the vehicle with no injury.

“Mom is so weird,” I said out loud to myself, staring after the car for a beat more before turning to enter the building itself.

~*~

A nurse led me down a series of winding hallways that all looked the same before I reached Grandma Violet’s room. I tried to remember the way I came but got disoriented in the process and gave up, resigned to the fact that I would have to ask someone the way back to the entrance when I would need to leave.

“Here we go,” the nurse said in a too-cheery voice. “Room 112.”

“Thank you,” I said politely as she opened the door to the room to allow me in.

The room was as dull as any other hospital room. I supposed it was the only thing Hollywood got right in its movies. They always showed them as so generic with uninspiring beige or blue walls and white tiled floors. They all looked the same, the only difference being the body that occupied the room’s bed.

This one particularly was occupied by an elderly woman with a round, wrinkled face, and sort of “crinkly” eyes. As she turned to look at me, I noted her hair was white and sort of patchy, not covering her head entirely. But even so, her face broke into a small smile as she saw me. As she did so, I took notice of the glowing blue butterfly soul, resting in her chest. Almost at the same time, my ears picked up the sharp beep of a heart monitor, resounding in the now silent room, the busy sounds of the rest of the hospital shut out.

“Hello, Jean,” Grandma Violet said quietly, still smiling faintly.

“Hello, Grandma Violet,” I said in response. “It’s good to see you.” But somehow, such simple words sounded hollow and impersonal to my ears. Like a greeting card sent to someone, you don’t know very well.

But either Grandma didn’t pick up on my tone or she ignored it because she not only continued to smile at me but beckoned for me to sit beside her.

“Good to see you too,” she said. “It’s been so long.”

I half expected her to say something about how tall I’d gotten or how I’ve changed so much since I last saw her but she didn’t. Instead, she waited patiently for me to take a seat beside her, eyes sparkling.

“Still have that scar on your hand I see,” she chuckled. 

I instinctively looked down to look at the small white mark across the back of my right hand. 

“Yeah, Venus didn’t play very nice, did she,” I said, tracing the scar with my thumb.

“Still doesn’t,” Grandma Violet laughed. “I have about three just like it. I know she just gets excited but I got her declawed anyways.”

“That’s a relief,” I wasn’t sure what else to say. I was still kind of sad that the dumb cat was still around.

“I know you’re lying,” Grandma chuckled again, but she didn’t push it. “Play that piano lately?”

“Not for a year actually,” I said truthfully. It seemed she could tell when I was politely fibbing so why not?

“What a shame,” Grandmother Violet sighed. “You did seem to like it.”

“I did,” I surprised myself with the sudden agreement but it was true. “It allowed me to express myself, my mother said.”

“Music is just another language after all,” Grandmother agreed. “We have to learn it just like we have to learn any language. But it’s ever so rewarding.”

“Did you ever play anything?” I asked her, genuinely curious. She spoke of music with such fondness, I knew she had to.

“Viola,” she replied. “In high school. And then guitar when I was older. But my hands have gotten so shaky now, I don’t think I could pluck a note,” she gave a short laugh and shook her head slightly.

This woman struck me as strange. She laughed so freely about things that didn’t feel normal people would find funny.

“What did you play?” I asked her, not knowing what else to do but keep the conversation going, anything to drown out that incessant heart monitor’s bleeps that seemed to be growing more and more uncomfortable the longer I stayed in the room.

“Everything!” her eyes were filled with a new kind of light as she spoke about the songs she played. Everything from Mozart, to popular pop songs, to old Irish tunes, to even some songs she wrote herself. She went on to tell me about her sheets and sheets of music at home and how one of her old houses caught fire and how she cried because she lost so many sheets of music. But thankfully, she was able to salvage some sheets, though they were positively soaked due to the firefighters’ “explosive” hose as she called it. She spent all that next night laying out her remaining music sheets carefully and drying them with a hairdryer. To my surprise, I found myself engrossed in the story, and even laughing a little when she reached its conclusion. But as she came to the end, my attention reverted again to her soul.

The little butterfly flitted against her rib cage. It was so eager to fly. It wasn’t going to wait much longer. It was going to escape any second now.

“I’ll take care of Venus,” I said suddenly, surprising even myself.

“Venus?” Grandma Violet turned to look at me, inclining her head ever so slightly towards me. “But you hate that cat?” her faint ghost of a voice held shock.

“I know, and I do,” I scowled at the floor. “But he misses you I’m sure. I’ll take care of him. Just till you get back.”

Grandma Violet settled into the hospital bed. The butterfly was almost erratic at this point, batting left and right against both sides of her chest. The bleeps of the heart monitor began to slow.

I sucked in a sharp breath, surprised at what I was feeling now; a pang of sadness in my chest that bubbled to my throat, making it feel as if it were closing, making it hard to talk all of the sudden.

I barely knew Grandma Violet. She always lived so far away. We hardly ever saw her. And I have seen many souls pass on, sometimes in the most unlikely of places. 

Once I was at a park, and I saw two glittering Koi fish swim their way through a window from a house nearby. An hour later, an ambulance screamed by and parked in the driveway. 

Another time I was at a beach where I talked to a gentleman at an ice cream stand. I didn’t see his soul pass exactly, but the gilded bird in his chest was restless, flapping its wings, preparing itself for its eventual flight.

All souls pass on someday. That’s life. Whether you can see souls or not, we all have to accept it at some point. I suppose being a Soul Gazer is sort of pointless in that regard. It doesn’t change anything.

Yet, at this moment, I wish it did.

I looked at the pale elderly face, blankets drawn to her wrinkled chin. I never noticed, but her eyes didn’t seem quite as old as the rest of her. Part of me wondered what all those eyes had seen in her long lifetime.

The rush of sentimentality continued to shock me as I counted the heart monitor beeps in my head as they grew farther and farther apart.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, I chanted to myself. You hardly know this lady. The only string that ties you together is one of blood.

But this line of thinking that I had normally entertained suddenly struck me as callous. It never had before. Is this a part of growing older?

“Are you okay, Jean?” Grandma’s voice sounded far away but still managed to hold a note of concern.

I swallowed before I spoke but my voice sounded hoarse regardless.

“I’m fine, Granny.”

But even as I spoke, I couldn’t peel my aways away from the butterfly stretching its silvery wings before taking flight. One last bleep and Grandma’s eyes fell shut.

I watched as the soul flitted out of her chest and lilted out the opened window, taking to the blue skies beyond.

A wet sensation on the back of my hand startled me as I came to the realization I was crying. 

“I’m fine,” I murmured to myself, though I didn’t wipe it away. 

~*~

When I returned home that evening, I turned to the dusty keyboard in the corner. I set it up in front of my bedroom window and took a wet rag to it, wiping away a year’s worth of dirt. When I was finished, I took out my folding chair and positioned myself in front of it. But even before my fingers settled into their positions, I couldn’t help but notice a faint blue glow in the corner of my eye. Perched on the edge of the keyboard, a little blue butterfly was resting itself, wing outstretched. The cynical part of me began to speak. 

There’s no way of knowing for sure it’s her.

But for some reason, I found myself ignoring it.

“Listen closely,” I said to the butterfly. “This one is just for you.”