Through My Sister's Eyes - Part V

How Diane Communicated

At first, in the weeks after my sister's death, I never really knew when she was with me or what she wanted. I would only know when I felt her emotions; those intense feelings that I knew were not mine. It took me awhile to understand and to put them into perspective with the decisions that Bill and I were making about her funeral arrangements.

Diane didn't verbalize what she wanted in the beginning; she used her dramatic emotions. Sometimes there was an outburst of emotions that pointedly made her wishes known to me. Perhaps in the beginning she hadn't learned to concentrate her thoughts well enough to verbalize her wants, or maybe I wasn't experienced enough to interpret them precisely. But she made her wants known, from selecting the cemetery plat that she wanted, to choosing the flowers that would adorn the chapel and her coffin.

My sister was at her funeral service. I had felt her presence in the back of the room during part of the memorial service. Perhaps the open casket made her apprehensive. I didn’t feel her presence during the entire service -- I certainly didn’t feel she was there when I gave the eulogy.

Later, under a canopy at the grave site, Diane had looked down on the coffin. She was watching from a high perspective up in the corner. I had seen the scene in my heard, from her viewpoint. Diane was pleased with the turnout of people who came to pay their respects. Many people were there from the firm where Bill worked and she liked that they came.

My sister loved all the beautiful red roses and various floral arrangements that had been sent from all over the country by family and friends. She was loved and the flowers had reinforced that love for her. I felt her pleasure. Diane was truly appreciative.

Diane’s earthly mission, however, was far from over. For weeks and months after her funeral, when she wanted to be heard, she would get into my head. She would literally invade my dreams at night … stop the dream in mid-stream … and be in my face with her demands. Often she interrupted my dreams to inform me of the things that she wanted me to do. Things that she insisted I must do!

After some time, I understood that Diane wanted me to do things for her that she thought would help her family grow and thrive without her being there to oversee them. Her dramatic entrances into my conscious would disrupt whatever I was doing or thinking. To me, they grew to be an invasion of my privacy – of my life. With all of their frequency the appearances became frustrating, but they were something over which I had no control.

Even though Diane may not have approved of it, I had a life of my own. A thriving marketing and advertising business kept me busy and challenged. I had been divorced for five years when my sister died and was raising my eight-year-old daughter, Ronica, in Arizona. I enjoyed being on my own and being single. My older daughter Cammy had begun a family of her own and seemed happy. Life was good.

Not being a co-dependent individual, I enjoyed dating several men at that point in my life. I had a number of friends and socialized enough to keep me contented. As with most of my single friends, I struggled financially but managed to provide a decent income and a nice home for my family. I was quite happy in my little world.

My personal life and a future that was evolving didn’t seem to matter to Diane. She had her own agenda, which included my future. Perhaps she didn’t totally have it formulated at first, or perhaps I didn’t fully understand what it was that she wanted from me when the visits began, but she had her own plan for my future and my life.

I eventually understood the things she wanted from me. Because I felt her emotions, I knew that she meant well but that didn’t make her plans any more palatable to me. However, Diane’s mission was so important to her that she was desperate to get her way. My sister’s demands frustrated me tremendously. In time, my resistance made it all the more difficult for Diane to carry out her agenda.

The seemingly never ending non-verbal arguments between us would take place inside my head – Diane’s demands, and most of the time my reb uttals or refusals. I fiercely resisted that mental arm-wrestling for her to get her way and take control of my life and my future.

Diane had first let me know that she wanted me to team up with Bill and help raise her children on the night of her funeral. Her logic was that I was a single mother and my youngest daughter was still at an age that I could use some financial assistance with her upbringing and education. I didn’t have a man in my life right now, at least not one that she would consider long-term worthwhile. All she could see was that her three youngest children needed a surrogate mother. My sister wanted to make sure that proxy would raise her children close to they way she would have raised them, if she were still alive. That person, in her opinion, was to be me. It didn’t matter what I thought of the idea.

The night of her memorial service, when she first let me know her idea, I had been so physically tired and emotionally exhausted from the funeral that I didn8 0t want to hear anything more from her at all. She had made a lot of demands of me for days leading up to the service. “Just leave me alone!” I screamed at her inside my head. All I had wanted to do was to go to sleep so I would be rested to catch my early morning flight back to Phoenix. But Diane had kept insisting that I listen to her. I had become very angry and frustrated. I kept telling her to go away and leave me alone. But she didn’t – not until I had heard all of her rationalizations. She was as persistent and manipulative after her death as she had been before, perhaps even more so.

It wasn’t fair for her to keep making demands of me. And especially demands that I wasn’t willing to accept. After all, I had my own life … remember?

Diane didn’t appear to me in a ghostly form, or any form, until her final manifestation. But that would be months later -- months that seemed like an eternity to me

Through My Sister's Eyes - Part IV

Making choices (continued)

When we finally arrived at Mom and Dad’s house in Old Town, Bill and I were emotionally exhausted from the long drive and the visit to the police station. Fortunately Bill had been spared the emotional trauma of having to identify Diane’s body. After all, how many out-of-town accident victims with full identification could have died in a small Florida town?

My parents were in a worse emotional state than either Bill or I. Certainly losing a wife or sister as a terrible tragedy, but nothing could be worse than losing a child. As much as my heart ached for my loss, it ached a thousand times more for my parents. We spent the next few hours comforting each other and reminiscing about Diane.

When the time was appropriate Bill brought out three dresses that he had chosen as possibilities for Diane’s burial. I had recognized two of them, but not the third. Personally, it didn’t matter to me which she would wear because they were all quite suitable. I do recall thinking about a color scheme though. For no apparent reason, I had suddenly developed a favorite. It became very important that the soft neutral rose-colored dress be chosen. The colors were neutral, but with a soft rose hue that played prominently in the brocade fabric.

We also chose the jewelry that she would wear. I remembered feeling that she was partial to certain pieces. Was it because I had seen her wearing them? I had no idea. All I know is that I voted for what I felt were her preferred pieces. In fact, somehow I knew they were.

At that point, I hadn’t learned to recognize when Diane was letting me know what she wanted and influencing the choices I made. It turned out that those initial choices had paved the way for additional funeral decisions after we returned to Miami. There was so much that Bill and I would learn about my dead sister’s decision making over the next few days.

Take for instance, Diane’s burial plot. As a couple, they had never made decisions about their final resting place or funeral arrangements. Bill had no burial plots, so that was the first thing that needed to be purchased after he decided where the memorial service would be and who would officiate.

As much as I’ve always disliked being a part of preparations for death, I had obligated myself to help him with the decisions, so it was Bill and I who shopped for a grave site.We started looking for the cemetery plot first, later it would be a visit to the mortuary to select a casket, and then to choose the flowers.

Bill drove us to an established cemetery that was relatively close to their home in Pinecrest. He had decided to purchase a family cemetery plot so, in the event anything happened to him or either of the children, the plots would be together. That was a good plan but it made for a limited selection.

We drove into the parking area of the main building at the cemetery. The grounds were lush and green with mature trees and beautifully manicured shrubbery. It wasn’t a large office, but ample for two employees and a receptionist. A very gracious lady greeted us, and when Bill explained his needs, she walked us out to a golf cart and drove us to a specific area of the cemetery with plots that were available for purchase.

The ride was smooth, at first, on the paved roadway. Then the ride became bumpier as we moved into a new area of the cemetery that had recently been opened. There was a lot of construction on the roadways and some planting of small bushes and fledgling trees. Mostly it was open fields. Bill mentioned later that those plots were considerably less money, and that it would eventually be landscaped like the established areas were. At least that’s what the saleslady had told him.

Bill walked with the saleslady to see some plots while I walked in another direction, casually glancing at the grave markers. The majority bore foreign names that I struggled to pronounce; many were Hispanic names. I began to frantically search the rows of markers for names that were more familiar – perhaps family names. No such luck.

As I wandered around the area I became more and more agitated. I had no idea what made me upset, but it slowly increased into a feverish anger. The walk somehow turned into an ethnic crusade. What had come over me?

Eventually I got a grip on myself and realized that I wasn’t the one who was angry. It was Diane’s emotions that I had been feeling. She didn’t like it there and she was letting me know, in no uncertain terms. When she was alive she had so vehemently opposed the influx of illegal aliens into the Miami area, and the foreign residents pushing for Spanish as a first language. She was American through and though, but was probably a bit prejudiced also. Diane firmly believed that if people from other countries came to America in pursuit of their dreams of freedom and prosperity, they should respect the English language and learn to speak it.

Regardless, Diane was upset that Bill had been considering this area instead of the beautiful, established part of the cemetery that she liked; just for the sake of frugality. Diane had no qualms’ about her husband spending a lot of money, especially when it was on her. She could have cared less that he was thinking he could save several thousand dollars. She was furious at him!

Bill took advantage of a lull in their conversation and walked over to ask me what I had thought about the plots. I glanced over where the he had left the saleslady standing and told him exactly what I thought or, more precisely, what Diane had thought. “Bill”, I said, “Diane doesn’t like this area at all.”

I explained to him about foreign names on most of the grave markers, the new grounds with no grass or mature landscaping, the construction, and all the things that she didn’t like. It lacked the dignity and grace that Diane wanted. She intensely disliked this area and I told him about the extreme feelings that she had – the feelings that she had put inside of me, so I would know exactly how she felt about being buried there.

Bill contemplated my response briefly and decided to move on to other sections to see what else was available.

We got back into the golf cart and our saleslady drove on. She wasn’t offended that we hadn’t selected a plot in that area and, in fact, suggested that she might have the perfect solution for our needs. It was a substantial drive, back through the new area and across various ‘neighborhoods’ until we finally stopped in a very lovely area with traditional gravestones and mature shade trees. The landscaping was pristine with rows of hedges that divided the groups of plots like a maze. The hedges were trimmed with military precision.

Jostled from the ride, we exited the cart and followed our leader to some plots that were conspicuously empty in that mature resting area. I noticed the names on the memorials as we passed each grave stone. There were names like Johnson, Clark, and Murphy – last names that were familiar. I felt no anger here, no negative feelings at all.I walked over and stood on the vacant soil of the plots that were for sale. Peaceful, content feelings immediately rushed into my being. A warm breeze crossed my face and gently brushed my hair. Diane liked that place a lot and would be very happy there. She had no objections to her body resting at that spot … forever.

Bill came over and asked me what I thought of this place. What I thought? If he only knew that it was all Diane’s decision. The question should have been what had Diane thought of it. With true sincerity I said, “Bill, Diane likes it here. She likes it a lot.”

My positive response seemed to be all the encouragement that Bill needed to make a decision on the purchase. We returned to the golf cart and the saleslady drove us back to the office to sign the papers and complete the transaction. That should have been an easy procedure.

Through My Sister's Eyes - Part III

Making choices

When we finally arrived at Mom and Dad’s house in Old Town, Bill and I were emotionally exhausted from the long drive and the visit to the police station. Fortunately Bill had been spared the emotional trauma of having to identify Diane’s body. After all, how many out-of-town accident victims with full identification could have died in a small Florida town?

My parents were in a worse emotional state than either Bill or I. Certainly losing a wife or sister is a terrible tragedy, but nothing could be worse than losing a child. As much as my heart ached for my loss, it ached a thousand times more for my parents. We spent the next few hours comforting each other and reminiscing about Diane.

When the time was appropriate Bill brought out three dresses that he had chosen as possibilities for Diane’s burial. I had recognized two of them, but not the third. Personally, it didn’t matter to me which she would wear because they were all quite suitable. I do recall thinking about a color scheme though. For no apparent reason, I had suddenly developed a favorite. It became very important that the soft neutral rose-colored dress be chosen. The colors were neutral, but with a soft rose hue that played prominently in the brocade fabric.

We also chose the jewelry that she would wear. I remembered feeling that she was partial to certain pieces. Was it because I had seen her wearing them? I had no idea. All I know is that I voted for what I felt were her preferred pieces. In fact, somehow I knew they were.

At that point, I hadn’t learned to recognize when Diane was letting me know what she wanted and influencing the choices I made. It turned out that those initial choices had paved the way for additional funeral decisions after we returned to Miami. There was so much that Bill and I would learn about my dead sister’s decision making over the next few days.

Take for instance, Diane’s burial plot. As a couple, they had never made decisions about their final resting place or funeral arrangements. Bill had no burial plots, so that was the first thing that needed to be purchased after he decided where the memorial service would be and who would officiate.

As much as I’ve always disliked being a part of preparations for death, I had obligated myself to help him with the decisions, so it was Bill and I who shopped for a grave site.

We started looking for the cemetery plot first, later it would be a visit to the mortuary to select a casket, and then to choose the flowers.

Bill drove us to an established cemetery that was relatively close to their home in Pinecrest. He had decided to purchase a family cemetery plot so, in the event anything happened to him or either of the children, the plots would be together. That was a good plan but it made for a limited selection.

We drove into the parking area of the main building at the cemetery. The grounds were lush and green with mature trees and beautifully manicured shrubbery. It wasn’t a large office, but ample for two employees and a receptionist. A very gracious lady greeted us, and when Bill explained his needs, she walked us out to a golf cart and drove us to a specific area of the cemetery with plots that were available for purchase.

The ride was smooth, at first, on the paved roadway. Then the ride became bumpier as we moved into a new area of the cemetery that had recently been opened. There was a lot of construction on the roadways and some planting of small bushes and fledgling trees. Mostly it was open fields. Bill mentioned later that those plots were considerably less money, and that it would eventually be landscaped like the established areas were. At least that’s what the saleslady had told him.

Bill walked with the saleslady to see some plots while I walked in another direction, casually glancing at the grave markers. The majority bore foreign names that I struggled to pronounce; many were Hispanic names. I began to frantically search the rows of markers for names that were more familiar – perhaps family names. No such luck.

As I wandered around the area I became more and more agitated. I had no idea what made me upset, but it slowly increased into a feverish anger. The walk somehow turned into an ethnic crusade. What had come over me?

Eventually I got a grip on myself and realized that I wasn’t the one who was angry. It was Diane’s emotions that I had been feeling. She didn’t like it there and she was letting me know, in no uncertain terms. When she was alive she had so vehemently opposed the influx of illegal aliens into the Miami area, and the foreign residents pushing for Spanish as a first language. She was American through and though, but was probably a bit prejudiced also. Diane firmly believed that if people from other countries came to America in pursuit of their dreams of freedom and prosperity, they should respect the English language and learn to speak it.

Regardless, Diane was upset that Bill had been considering this area instead of the beautiful, established part of the cemetery that she liked; just for the sake of frugality. Diane had no qualms’ about her husband spending a lot of money, especially when it was on her. She could have cared less that he was thinking he could save several thousand dollars. She was furious at him!

Bill took advantage of a lull in their conversation and walked over to ask me what I had thought about the plots. I glanced over where the he had left the saleslady standing and told him exactly what I thought or, more precisely, what Diane had thought. “Bill”, I said, “Diane doesn’t like this area at all.”

I explained to him about foreign names on most of the grave markers, the new grounds with no grass or mature landscaping, the construction, and all the things that she didn’t like. It lacked the dignity and grace that Diane wanted. She intensely disliked this area and I told him about the extreme feelings that she had – the feelings that she had put inside of me, so I would know exactly how she felt about being buried there.

Bill contemplated my response briefly and decided to move on to other sections to see what else was available.

We got back into the golf cart and our saleslady drove on. She wasn’t offended that we hadn’t selected a plot in that area and, in fact, suggested that she might have the perfect solution for our needs.

It was a substantial drive, back through the new area and across various ‘neighborhoods’ until we finally stopped in a very lovely area with traditional gravestones and mature shade trees. The landscaping was pristine with rows of hedges that divided the groups of plots like a maze. The hedges were trimmed with military precision.

Jostled from the ride, we exited the cart and followed our leader to some plots that were conspicuously empty in that mature resting area. I noticed the names on the memorials as we passed each grave stone. There were names like Johnson, Clark, and Murphy – last names that were familiar. I felt no anger here, no negative feelings at all.

I walked over and stood on the vacant soil of the plots that were for sale. Peaceful, content feelings immediately rushed into my being. A warm breeze crossed my face and gently brushed my hair. Diane liked that place a lot and would be very happy there. She had no objections to her body resting at that spot … forever.

Bill came over and asked me what I thought of this place. What I thought? If he only knew that it was all Diane’s decision. The question should have been what had Diane thought of it. With true sincerity I said, “Bill, Diane likes it here. She likes it a lot.”
My positive response seemed to be all the encouragement that Bill needed to make a decision on the purchase. We returned to the golf cart and the saleslady drove us back to the office to sign the papers and complete the transaction. That should have been an easy procedure.

Through My Sister's Eyes - Part II

After finally regaining my composure from seeing the vision of my sister's fatal accident, I needed to call her husband Bill. It was important for me to find out how he was holding up and how the kids were doing.

I was never particularly fond of Bill. He was a workaholic, aloof, and a bit pompous … a brilliant man with, in my opinion, absolutely no common sense. I didn’t care for the indifferent way he treated Diane and had never heard him have a compassionate discussion on any subject. My mother, however, had assured me on several occasions that he could be quite human. She was actually very fond of him.

Anyway, I picked up the phone and called. “Bill” I said, “This is Terry … I’m so sorry about Diane. Are you ok? How are the babies?”

The babies? I had never referred to her youngest children as ‘the babies’, but Diane did. In addition, I had never been so genuinely interested in Bill’s well-being. I found those feelings strange, even under the circumstance.

We talked for awhile. I comforted him and eventually learned that he was planning on leaving the next morning to drive up to my mom and dad’s Florida home, about 8 hours north of Miami. He wanted mom’s opinion on the dress in which Diane should be buried, and on the various funeral arrangements.

Since we had never been that close, Bill was surprised when I informed him that I would fly down the next morning to accompany him on the drive. His surprise couldn’t have been greater than mine, however, when that statement came out of my mouth. Although noticeably confused by my offer, he seemed genuinely appreciative of having my company on the long drive, and valued another family opinion on the decisions that needed to be made for my sister’s funeral.

On this trip Bill also had the agonizing responsibility to stop at the police department in Leesburg, about halfway between Miami and my parent’s winter home, to identify Diane’s body. He was hoping to learn some details about how the accident happened and I had hoped to find a way to tell him about the vision.

The next morning Bill picked me up at Miami International Airport. We exchanged greetings, embraced, and cried. Then we got into his car and headed north on the same freeway that had claimed my sister’s life just days before.

After a short time conversation became awkward, so I was quiet as Bill drove. I racked my brain trying to formulate a way of telling him about my vision. I wanted to tell him before we got to the police station, before he found out from them what had happened. It was just so difficult to approach this topic.

Finally, after what seemed like hours of silence, I said to him, “Bill…did they tell you anything about what happened to cause the accident? Was it a car or truck that hit her? Who was at fault? Did they tell you anything at all?” His reply was no. I garnered all the courage that I could muster and said “I think I do”.

He took his eyes off the road for just a moment and looked at me. In that brief glance there was an expression of surprise and disbelief. A look that begged the question of how I could know anything at all when he knew nothing.

So I began a delicately worded description of the vision that I had been given the evening I found out about Diane’s death. Those images and feelings had clearly presented me with firsthand details of the accident, through my sister’s eyes.

I told him, from what I saw and felt, Diane was tired from driving all night and stopped for coffee. He was quite aware that she liked to drive through the night so she could get more out of her trips. She usually had her day’s agenda packed to the gill. Most often she had the two youngest kids with her. In fact she hardly took a road trip without them, especially when she was going to see Nana and Bampa. (That’s what all the grandkids affectionately called our mom and dad.) But this trip her plans had included checking out some real estate for possible purchase, so she had left the babies at home.

Continuing the conversation, I told Bill the vision had revealed that after her break for coffee, in the early dawning hours of daylight, Diane was still very sleepy. She had gotten back on the freeway and, after seeing the headlights of oncoming cars in her lane and the southbound lanes to her right, she had eventually realized that she was going the wrong direction on the freeway.

Bill was skeptical about the whole idea of my having seen a vision of the accident; I could see it in his facial expressions. He kept driving and listened.

“Bill”, I said, “I saw Diane’s hands on the steering wheel, and through the windshield I saw everything that she had seen on the road in front of her. I felt the emotions that she felt right up to the end."

I wept as I continued telling him about the vision. I had clearly seen the other vehicle when they collided. It was a pick-up truck with a camper top. I knew it was a lone male driver, because I had seen the terrified look on his face just before the collision. I had seen his fear and felt her terror-filled remorse. Diane never wanted to hurt anyone. That’s why she had veered right into the median instead of to the left. There were so many cars in the lane of oncoming traffic, so many innocent people that could have been hurt, had she veered left. Even in the final moments of her life, she had attempted to not hurt anyone.

We drove the rest of the way to the police station in silence. It was a long, awkward silence that ate away at my self-confidence. I had no idea whether he believed me or not, but I knew what I had seen and I was positive that was how the accident had happened.

Bill and I both dreaded the purpose of our visit with the police in Leesburg. We were going there to discover facts and to claim Diane’s body. She had her purse and all of her credentials with her when the accident occurred, but identifying the body was a police formality.

I had already informed Bill that I would wait in the lobby for him. There was no need for me to go in to talk with the detective or to see her body. My emotional stamina had been tested enough.

A long sidewalk meandered through the neatly manicured lawn, and lead to the glass front doors of the station. The building itself had a pleasant modern architecture that made a favorable impression on me as we approached.

After announcing our arrival and purpose to the receptionist, Bill had been escorted into a private office and I settled down in the waiting area with thoughts about my sister.

Much sooner than I had expected, Bill appeared in the doorway carrying Diane’s personal effects. His face was ghostly pale and expressionless.

I rose from the chair and walked to meet him. We never said a word. I couldn’t think of anything to say that might comfort him, so I had remained silent. Later I found out that the detective had not insisted that Bill identify the body. It, after all, was a formality and Bill was so obviously distraught.

We walked out the doors and about halfway down the sidewalk when Bill suddenly stopped and turned toward me.

“Terry” he said to me, “The accident happened exactly as you saw it … exactly.”

Oh my God. I knew the vision had showed me how it had happened, but it was a relief for that information to be verified by others, especially by the police who investigated the accident and interviewed eyewitnesses.

I don’t know if Bill became a believer that day, but it certainly opened his mind to the possibility that Diane revealed the details of the accident to me. For what reason, we had no idea. From that point on, Bill was open to believe and understand when Diane started communicating her wishes, through me. She began making her own decisions on the arrangements for her funeral and burial. But that was just the beginning. Over the weeks and months that followed, it took all the open-mindedness that both of us had to deal with her.

Through My Sister's Eyes - paranormal nonfiction

The Vision - Part I

It’s been over twenty-two years since my sister died. I can’t explain why it’s taken me this long to write down the happenings that followed for almost six months after her death. The visions, conversations, and directives are as vivid now as they were all those years ago.

Mid-day, I received a call from my eldest sister, Arlene, informing me of our sister Diane’s death. It was a car accident, five days prior. She didn’t know any details. It happened in Leesburg, a small town in central Florida, and had taken most of the week for the authorities to locate and notify Diane’s husband Bill in Miami. Diane had been visiting mom and dad and the accident happened on her return trip.

I held up alright while on the phone with Arlene, but was overcome with grief after we hung up. The questions that I had were overshadowed by the numbness that followed, as I must have gone into shock. My eight-year-old daughter Ronica hovered over me like a mother hen, as I coped by slipping into a cleaning frenzy. Answers came later that day when a friend came to comfort me and we lay down in my room to calm my shattered existence.

Lying on my back with my eyes closed I saw a highway ahead of me. It was early morning, when there was enough light to see well but most cars still had their headlights on. I saw the road, the steering wheel, and hands on the wheel. At first I didn’t feel emotions. Not until I saw the two cars coming directly toward me in my lane. How stupid of them! It was then that I first felt the anger.

I supposed that the two cars were both in a rush and trying to move up in the traffic. Fortunately the first driver in the wrong lane saw me and pulled back into the long line in his correct lane. I was relieved until I saw the pick-up truck. I t was behind the first car and had no chance of getting out of my way. I felt panic hit me when I realized that we would surely collide. I had to make a choice. I could veer to the left and hit the entire line of oncoming traffic, or veer to the right and go into the median. I chose the median.

Then confusion swept over me. The median was on the wrong side of the road. I noticed to the distant right, across the wide median, two lanes of traffic were traveling in the direction I was going. Oh my God! I was the one going the wrong direction. I was going south on the northbound lanes of the freeway. Thinking back, I had known that I was tired from driving through the night, and had stopped for coffee. After having the coffee, I had returned to the interstate. How could I have made such a terrible mistake? Sheer terror overcame me. Terror like I have never known in my lifetime.

It seemed like slow motion watching the truck as he made the same decision to drive into the median in an attempt to avoid a collision. Our vehicles got closer and closer as if magnets were drawing us together. A mixture of anger and remorse filled those terrifying seconds.

I gripped the wheel even harder as I saw the driver’s horrified face. It was in that last brief moment that I realized the hands that were gripping the steering wheel for dear life weren’t mine … they were my sister Diane’s hands. Then everything went a brilliant white.

I was shaken and trembling when fear jarred me out of that vision, exhausted from the surge of intense emotions. Sobbing in terror, I cried out for my friend to hold me.

He held me tightly but it was hours before I calmed down and days before I realized why I was given the detailed vision of the accident that claimed my sister’s life that day.