Being only the second generation born in this country, most of my relatives live abroad. Some of them in the British Midlands where I think this occurred. I’ve heard about them, correspond with some of them, but most of them are names without faces that I will never meet in person.
Late one night, I don’t know if I was asleep, awake, or in a meditative state, but I suddenly found myself in the bedroom of a very ill man. Had he been standing he would have been about six feet tall. He had short grey hair and greenish-brown eyes.
His room was small, but certainly comfortably lived in. Bureaus with needleworked runners supported photos, mementos, personal items, and other things important to their owner. It seems there was a small fireplace on one side of the room, but it could have been another heating element of some sort.
The man was in bed. A woman who was looking after him was in the room with us sitting next to the bed. I think there was also another woman sitting in a small chair close to the corner of the room.
I wondered what I was doing there. In a little bit, the man turned his head and looking at me said, “I’m your Uncle Jack. I’ve just died.” Uncle Jack was related through my grandfather in some way.
This experience was so vivid I felt that it should be shared with the rest my family. My grandmother didn’t say much, but wrote down the date and time of this story. Five or six days later she got a letter from abroad telling her of Uncle Jack’s death. It coincided with the time and date that my nana had written down.