Bill and his two sisters, Amy and Pat, were keeping vigil in Intensive Care at their dying father's bedside.  Bill went home to rest, and fell, exhausted, onto the couch.  Suddenly, incredibly, his father stood in front of him--not the emaciated patient Bill had just left, but the virile man he remembered from his childhood.  Clinging to Dad's hand was a little girl, perhaps two years old, with curly black hair.  She seemed to be urging Dad to come with her.

Father and son gazed at each other.  All their arguments, temperamental differences and struggles seemed to disappear in a wordless wave of love, shared memories, the promise of tomorrow...  Then, as if his work was complete, Bill's father turned and followed the little girl, his figure fading from Bill's view.

The phone rang.  "Bill?" it was his sister Pat.  "Dad just died."

It was weeks before Bill could share the vision with his sisters.  And, like all rational twentieth-century beings, they second-guessed it, picked it apart, yet finally concluded that it must have been their father.  But who was the little girl?  Had they a sister who died early in her life?

Relatives said no.  But later, all three remembered that Amy's first pregnancy had ended in a miscarriage.  The baby had been too small to identify by gender.  But Amy's subsequent children all had curly black hair. 

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Dan was called to his dying mother's bedside, many miles from where he lived. Days passed, but his mother was still alive, and eventually Dan had to make plans to return home. Grief-stricken he sat with her, holding her hand. "I hate leaving you alone, Mom," he whispered.

His mother smiled weakly. "Everything will be fine, darling," she murmured. "And when I am safe in God's arms, I'll send you a rainbow."

A few weeks later Dan was at work and a co-worker came by. "Look out the window," she said.  "Isn't that the most beautiful rainbow you've ever seen?  And it hasn't even been raining."

A few minutes later the phone rang.  "Dan?" It was his mother's closest friend.  "Your mother just died."

"I know," Dan said.

(C) Copyright 1994 Joan Wester Anderson