Life is eternal and love is immortal;
And death is only a horizon,
And a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.
~Rossiter W. Raymond

The worst thing I could imagine had happened. Maureen, my beautiful, headstrong twenty-three-year-old sister, was dead. Mo had lived her life at 200 miles per hour, taking too many chances, most in the name of love for her family and friends. She was known for driving out late at night to rescue people who had run out of gas or to pick up folks who needed rides. So perhaps it was no great surprise that she met her fate in a car, at four in the morning, as her beloved Datsun crumpled against a utility pole on an Atlanta street.

While my parents and sister lived in Atlanta, most of our extended family was living in New York and my husband Steve and I were in Philadelphia. I can’t recall now the blur of what happened next: our trip south to deal with insurance, the funeral home, and the casket. We made endless calls to loved ones, sharing the horrible news.

The one person we deliberately didn’t tell was Grandma Berrigan. Grandma had dementia. What would be the point of saddening her? She would forget and would have to be told again and again when she asked. We felt there was no harm in keeping the truth from her.

Several months after Mo’s death, my mom flew up to New York. Mom approached Grandma’s house, her heart sinking. She anticipated the familiar litany of questions. Grandma always asked about the granddaughters in birth order. What would she say when it came to Maureen? And so it began that day. She asked for me, but then skipped Mo and asked about my younger sister, Carolyn.

There was a pause. Grandma continued, “And the little one… who died.”

Mom sat in shocked silence. No one had told her about Maureen’s death. She was positive of that.

Calmly, Grandma went on. “Maureen. Yes. She comes to me, you know. Sometimes at night, sometimes when I’m sitting in my chair. She talks to me. Maureen didn’t want to go out that night, you know. She wanted to stay home with you. Her friends called after you were asleep.”

My Lord, thought Mom. She remembered finding Mo’s scrawled note on the kitchen table in the early dawn, after the police knocked on the door. That’s right. But how could she…?

“Dear, Maureen needs you to stop crying. She is fine. She’s very happy, except that she’s worried about all of you. Your tears are holding her back from where she needs to go next.”

The incredible visit continued. Grandma was more alert than she had been in years, not repeating a single question. When at last they parted, she took Mom’s hands in both of hers and squeezed. “Maureen loves you so much. Please know that.”

Grandma lived quite a few more years. She and Mom never had another lucid conversation. Grandma never mentioned Maureen again to anyone. But the miracle of that afternoon stayed with us. My sister had reached out to us through my grandmother. Maybe Mo felt we wouldn’t have believed it if she spoke to us directly.

A priest friend, when we told him the story, had a thought that made sense to us. He said that perhaps people with dementia live with one foot on earth and one foot in heaven. Grandma was halfway home, and she was like a bridge to the other world.

It has been thirty-six years now. Maureen was joined by my grandma and my parents. The rest of the family is reassured that we will all meet again.

— Elise Seyfried —