Paracletes come from my work in thanatology and psychopomp. All cultures have similar creatures, all perform the same function although they appear differently. The best known (to classically educated westerners (do such creatures still exist?)) is probably Charon, the ferryman who ferried souls to Hades.
The Paraclete shows up in a few sections of one of my works-in-progress, The Shaman.
Robin’s mother, Pat, passed over this past weekend. We’d been preparing for her passing for quite a while. I’d been sensing her body failing off and on for the past ten or so years. For the past six or seven months, whenever we saw her socially, we’d comment to each other how “tired” she looked. Not tired in the sense of physical exhaustion from a good day’s work, tired in the sense the act of living became work.
So it was and wasn’t a surprise when we got a call she was in the hospital. She’d admitted herself. The form indicated Dehydration.
I walked into Pat’s hospital room, smiling briefly at her and then staried at the Paraclete floating over her bed.
I let Robin know that her mother wasn’t going to make it, even though she was alert and talking with us at the time.
When we were getting ready to leave, I held Pat’s hand and kissed her forehead.
She looked up at me. “You never kiss me.”
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