My grandmother kept a pen and piece of paper at the kitchen table. Every morning, I’d come downstairs before school to sit across from her, and she’d write down what I’d seen in my dreams. She’d ask questions, then tell me what the colors, symbols and people I dreamed of might mean. She took it seriously.I genuinely can’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t see things and know things. I always knew when the phone was about to ring. I knew when adults were lying. And sometimes I’d meet someone for the first time and just ... know things about them that I had no way of knowing.
In kindergarten, I was watching other kids play double dutch when I felt the energy of an old man standing next to me that the other kids couldn’t see. I didn’t know who he was, but I felt him there.
In high school, my gifts became harder to ignore. Senior year, one of my classmates got pulled out of class, and the second she left the room I knew something terrible ― violent ― had happened. Someone close to her was gone. I couldn’t explain it. The next day we found out her boyfriend had taken his life.
That’s how it’s always been with me and death. I look at people and I can feel when they’re sick, feel when someone’s not going to be here much longer. No one taught me that. It just came with me.
