My son was sitting upright on his bed, whispering into the darkness as though someone were listening.
My heart skipped at first, but as I walked closer, I realized he wasn’t frightened—just intent.
He looked over at me with drowsy eyes and pointed toward the rocking chair in the corner. “Mommy, the big man sits there. He sings.”
The room was empty, yet the chair swayed lightly, as if someone had only just risen from it.
The next morning, I gently asked him more about this “big man.”
My son said he was kind, older, and wore “a hat like the ones in Grandpa’s pictures.”
His words made me pause.
My father had passed away before my son was born, yet he had always dreamed of meeting his future grandchildren.
My son had never seen the old photo of him wearing that particular hat—it was from long before he was born.
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