To be orphaned is to be abandoned and although loss happens to everyone at some point in life, it happened to me when I was nine.
My parents died in a plane crash in the Rockies, and suddenly I was living with a maiden aunt, called of all things, Auntie.
Her real name was Cicely Warren. She was my father’s spinster sister, but as unlike him as the Moon the Sun.
She was cold and hard as the peppermints she kept locked in a small steel tin—cold and hard as the dark brooding thoughts shut up in her pursed lips.
When she spoke her sentences were terse, and splintered into words.
She inhabited an austere world nebulously existing in a void, a remote old maid on the very verge of human society
But my parents’ will that made Auntie my guardian also allowed me access to Basil Heathrow, my father’s advisor and longtime friend.
Basil was very much like Father—kind and gentle, albeit older and more solemn—but a refuge, and welcoming fire that cheered and warmed me through Auntie’s cold and moody spells.
Basil took me places, and I looked forward to our ‘adventures’ as he called them, for they were magical escapes from a grim and joyless life.
Once we visited a goldfish pond in a shady courtyard off a twisting street; another time, the Planters Peanut factory. And then, there was the overnight trip to Montreal on the train.
But it’s the small outings that still lodge in my brain—like standing in drizzly mist while Basil patiently explained the meaning of a rooftop weather beacon flashing red through a dark April afternoon.
And so, I was orphaned, but not abandoned, because in the end, I had Basil.
Years passed and I matured. I entered university and eventually became a lawyer.
I grew closer to Basil each year, depending on his sage guidance in all my affairs.
“You’re a teacher, Uncle Basil,” I told him one day. We were sitting in his office in Chamber House, a magnificent Beaux Arts building erected in the late 1920’s.
He reached over and squeezed my hand affectionately and laughed. “I’m not a teacher—I’m more an awakener, Cain.”
His use of the term seemed very accurate. He made me pay attention to life when all the rest of the world seemed asleep to its beauties and truths.
I reflected on the way our relationship had evolved over the years—and how he gradually became my mentor, and then, ultimately my friend.
But despite the fact I matured and grew up, Basil always remained the same.
He seemed to sense my thoughts because one day, he unexpectedly made a confession to me. He began by saying our relationship was ‘quite unique.’ When I asked what he meant, he simply said, it was owing to the fact I was alive and he was dead.
“I’m a vapour, Cain—a faint echo of a life once lived. But I still want to persist, though fleshless, and somehow make a difference.”
“You mean you’re a ghost?” I croaked.
“Not a bed sheet ghost or transparent wraith,” he explained. “Think of me as a guide.”
“And was my father aware—of your…state?”
He chuckled at my attempt to be delicate. “Yes, I met your father when he also turned nine—I met his father at the same age, and before that, his father’s father. You see, I’m very familiar with the Warren family. We go back a long way.”
“And what is the purpose of this relationship with our family?” I rasped.
“It’s very simple,” he confided. “I’m here to offer assistance in any way I can. You’re not obligated to follow my advice and you’re free to discontinue the relationship if you choose. But I do hope you’ll keep visiting me, as I’ve grown very fond of you.”
By this point in my life, Auntie had passed away and really, Basil was the only family I had—rarefied, or otherwise.
Although my educated head was unable to grasp the full implications of what he said, my heart had already decided—he was too important in my life to allow his being discarnate to divide us.
Basil then went on to add, “But my Boy, since you are flesh and blood, you need living companionship.”
I was bemused. “Are you suggesting I find a mate?”
He handed me a business card. “Start with a dog,” he said.
