I was a child, I have had a sixth sense. I used to play with
a little four-year-old girl (I was also four) who had once
lived in our house in Massapequa, NY. I never learned her
name, but I knew she had died of leukemia four months before
we moved in. My bedroom was the one which had been hers.
green eyes, long straight brown hair, and an olive complexion.
As I am an only child, she provided company for me. She was
happy all the time. We would play and sing children's songs
together in the play room, sit and have tea with all my stuffed
animals around the table. We played hide and seek or sat on
the edge of my bed and looked out the window. One of our favorite
games was jumping down the spiral stair case together, one
step at a time. She would jump next to me, or even through
me. One day I wanted to trick her. I pretended I was going
to jump to the last step with her, but I stopped and laughed
because I had made her jump alone. When I looked at her on
the bottom step, she turned and smiled at me.
would ask who I was talking to, and I used to tell her, "My
friend." Of course, she assumed I meant an imaginary friend,
not a spirit. But this was no imaginary friend. I did not
have imaginary friends. I was able to entertain myself and
I had peers to play with. Later, when another family member
saw her, it helped confirm my story.
had heard about my friend, but they didn't believe it was
true. Some months later, my parents left to visit my aunt
in Atlantic City for the day, while my grandmother stayed
with me in the house on Long Island. At my aunt's house, my
cousin Anthony walked downstairs and said to my parents, "I
didn't know Dina was here." Both my parents responded, "She
isn't. She's on the Island with Nanny." My cousin said, "No,
I just saw her upstairs walking out of the bathroom with blue
shorts and a blue and white striped shirt."
later, someone told me this story. I reminded my father of
the little girl who played with me, and who was dressed in
blue shorts and a white and blue striped tee-shirt.
was five, I was sitting at the kitchen table looking over
at the stove. I had a vision of something that had happened
to my little friend. Apparently, she had gone to the stove
to pick up a pot of boiling water. She wanted a hotdog, but
the pan of boiling water slipped and spilled all over her
stomach. Later, when I was an adult, I had to ask my parents
if I was the one who got scalded.
I would sometimes see her in the mirror or out of the corner
of my eye. When I turned, her foggy image would walk away.
She always seemed to be the same age as me, as if she had
grown-up developmentally along with me. I haven't seen her
since college, but at times I still feel her presence.
April 26, 2004