From the very beginning, Alex loved pranks. All pranks. Old gags. New gags. Water over the door. Three Stooges pokes. Unexpected spiders and monsters in memes. A Christmas morning air horn blast that launched his sleeping dad like a missile.
A personal favorite was his penchant for hiding his ever-migrating, highly aromatic shoes and socks and watching our faces turn green as we sniffed them out. When things got too serious, Alex was sure to lighten the mood.
But the laughter died with the 2 a.m. phone call that said Alex had been killed in a 2021 mass shooting. Could my shattered heart survive him being stolen from me? I wasn’t sure at all.
One night, in my deepest despair, I felt a touch. Not long after moving to our new home, my bedroom lights turned on by themselves. There were dragonflies. One morning, a tender white feather floated to my bedroom floor. Alex! I called out. Show me it’s you!
Later, the undeniable scent of Alex’s feet wafted in as I cleaned the kitchen. Then again. And again. I know clairalience connects with paranormal smells. But your feet, Alex? Seriously? Why not fresh cut grass, or a steak?
My beautiful son is gone. And, of all the possibilities, it’s weird to think the eye-watering scent of his feet keeps us together. But this is Alex don’t forget, the king of practical jokes, showing us that humor is eternal, and that the last laugh is his. I can hear his cackle now.
