Dead people are talking to me.

It’s been said that a flickering light is a signal from the dead. A sign that someone that you know who has died is trying to get your attention. So when I was standing behind the bar and the skylight above me started to flicker, I saw no choice but to make mention of this supernatural occurrence to the woman sitting in front of me. 

She was sitting beside her husband, alternating her attention between the plate of food in front of her and the basketball game on the television above us. 

“Who’s trying to get your attention?” I asked. 

“Probably my mom,” she replied.

“What you think she wants to tell you?”

“God only knows. She’s been gone for a while. Could be anything.”

The light continued flickering as I reached for an empty, dirty glass sitting next to the sink. As I submerged the glass into the first of the three wash sinks, I started to think who it was that could be trying to get my attention. I knew the woman sitting at the bar was going to ask me next. 

“How do you know it’s someone trying to get a hold of me?” she asked. 

“Good point,” I said. 

“Who would it be if it was someone trying to get your attention?” she asked.

“One of my grandmas.”

“Ok. And what would they want to say to you?”

A moment passed. Standing in silence, looking out the front window of the restaurant, I contemplated the possibilities. Which grandma would want to talk to me? Probably my mom’s mom. If she only had a few words, what would she say to me?

“I think she’d tell me she’s proud of me.” 

The woman I was speaking to seemed to question why she’d be proud of me. Upon first look, I understand that tending bar in a taco joint isn’t all that much for a 30 year old, college educated man to be proud of. When you consider all the opportunities I’ve had in my life and the resources I’ve been exposed to, it takes some deeper digging to understand why my grandmother might be proud of me. I get that. I don’t blame her for the seemingly confused look on her face. 

What she doesn’t know is that I spent so many years of my adult life not feeling proud of myself. 

In short, I took an easy route. I spent most of my twenties railing against myself for joining my family’s business because I knew it’d be easier than going out and making a life for myself. I had this thought in my mind that if I just walked in my dad’s footsteps and did as I was told, I’d earn fulfillment, happiness, and resources. Oh, the resources. If I just fit the mold and fell in line, I’d never have to worry.

But that’s not who I am. It never has been.

And if my grandma were still alive, she’d have seen right through my decision. Though she probably never would’ve come out and said it, she’d have known that I really had no interest in following in my dad’s footsteps. She’d have known that my misery would only grow the longer I avoided making a life of my own.

I’d have to get knocked down.

I’d have to make poor decisions. 

I’d have to fail. 

I’d have to suffer. 

I’d have to fail. 

I’d have to fail. 

I’d have to fall flat on my face and get myself up and dust myself off after getting my teeth kicked in with a mouth full of blood, smile, and ask for more.

She’d have known all of this if I was ever going to get where I want to go.

Wherever that is.

Probably somewhere I’m proud to be.