I was 14 when I gave my first reading. It was to an aunt who was intrigued and probably even bored. The setting could have been better; we were at the beach, and so much was happening around us. Market stalls, hustle and bustle, traffic, people arguing, laughing, singing. We sat on the balcony, and I started the reading and told her about her cousin, who passed at 24 and whom I had never met; she had died of cancer.
“Why did you stop?”
“I am not sure if I am doing it right.”
“It’s ok… even if you aren’t, it’s ok.”
I could see her in my mind’s eye, and I described her as thin and tall, the colour of her eyes and her long black hair. I shared some messages, and my aunt took them on board, but I could not see a reaction from her. I worried I wasn’t making sense, so I stopped momentarily.
I had not been convincing so far, so I stopped altogether. However, just before ending it, I was suddenly taken by a powerful feeling, and I addressed my aunt by her first name. I had never done that before:
“Aida… look! The butterflies! The butterflies!”
Without thinking, I moved all ten fingers to simulate the butterflies fluttering around and in front of me. My aunt jumped from her seat and called out to my grandmother, my mum and all the other family members. I was still in a haze, but I heard her describe the last part frantically to them.
“It’s what she told me just before she died! She saw butterflies fluttering before her. She kept repeating: Aida, the butterflies, the butterflies!”
They cried they hugged, and some started praying. Some kissed my cheeks, and my grandma repeated, “I love you, Garo.” as she hugged me warmly.
I was too young to appreciate what happened and all the love that followed. My mind was already wandering to the ice cream seller and a swim in the sea.
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