THE BROKEN MAGIC WAND

I have been a widow for nearly ten years now. Like most widows, I felt too grief-stricken to go on alone for a while, but gradually accepted my loss and have made a new and very different life for myself. Many memories, though, are permanent.

My late husband, Harold, was a talented amateur magician. Several times during our marriage he mentioned that when he died, he wanted me to arrange a magician’s broken wand ceremony. It sounded a little bizarre to me, but after his death I wanted to honor his wish, though wondering nervously how the rabbi would react. The president of the local International Brotherhood of Magicians ring promised to perform the ceremony and asked me to provide one of Harold’s magic wands for it. Would this be an embarrassing parody of a normal service? The neighborhood florist also wanted to provide flowers in a top hat with a rabbit; I drew the line there.

The memorial service began traditionally, with the rabbi’s reading some prayers in Hebrew and speaking about Harold. Then it was the magician's turn. He read some lines that I found surprisingly moving, so I relaxed and concentrated on listening. Finally, he held up the wand and read, “The magic of earth is over. The magic and mystery of another realm awaits Harold and will be revealed,” as he broke the wand in half. I heard some gasps from behind me and wondered what caused them. Later, someone told me that just as the wand was broken, a door at the side of the chapel opened silently, but no one was there. Then it slowly closed again. It was as if Harold were saying goodbye.

I am a rational person, trained in biology—I am not at all superstitious! In the weeks that followed, however, there were other strange happenings. Harold’s best magic trick had been what magicians call the cups and balls, an elaborate version of a shell game. He would quickly move the cups around, then lift them to reveal balls and other objects that no one expected. One evening when I was playing with our dog Mac (a Scotty who had been Harold’s devoted companion), the dog was listlessly batting around some rubber balls. And then, suddenly, he was pushing a bright red ball toward me, a ball I had never seen before. I swear he was grinning at me.

Another night, I was lying in bed unable to sleep. Then I smelled a unique, foul smell that could have come only from the cigars Harold had smoked. (But I had gleefully destroyed those cigars!) The odor became very strong, as if someone was walking past the house, then gradually faded away. I looked out the window but saw no one.

Harold’s old Mercedes stopped running the day he died, so the next week I went to see Dave the Mechanic. When I drove in, Dave turned white as a sheet and said, “Harold is dead, isn’t he?” It turned out that at the moment Harold was dying, Dave suddenly knew it, but had told himself he was imagining things until he saw me.

For the next few months, I heard—or imagined—Harold speaking to me several times. Then I regained my equilibrium, and there were no more “supernatural” events. I have always laughed at stories like this, but now I am not so sure!