“Hey, man! Nice ink. What’s the significance of it?”

I get this question three times a week. I’ll usually raise up my right forearm so they don’t have to step too far into my space. Their head tilts, and I catch their eyes studying the clash of warm and cool colors, the collision of real and surreal. Through their half-smile, I can almost hear their thoughts. It must mean something. 

Stretching from elbow to wrist, the entire field of my half sleeve provides nowhere for the eye to rest, so it sometimes takes a couple seconds for a curious stranger’s gaze to register. But then you can’t mistake it: A larger-than-life dragonfly is perched on my flexor, bathed in a palette of cool colors. He’s practically walking up my arm. He’s got two smaller companions in teal and purple, also dragonflies, but they’re swift in motion, flying opposite. If I were to point at something with my right hand, I could almost launch those two directly through my fingertips. Their backdrop is red, orange, and pink clouds, and the entire plane is bookended by two palm trees. It is in no way a subtle tattoo. I couldn’t hide it if I tried, but I would never want to. It is something that is only mine. 

I figure if they are gutsy enough to ask the question, then they can handle the answer. “Well,” I say, as I point to the big dragonfly, “this is my father.”

At this point, I need to draw an important distinction— there are dragonfly facts and there are dragonfly myths. The facts are that they can fly backwards. They control the mosquito population. Nearly their entire head is eyes. The myths are that they symbolize change and healing. They represent self-realization. They can access other dimensions, a sort of spiritual messenger between the worlds. 

And then there’s my dragonfly reality, which was about to unfold. 

In the years following my dad’s death in 2001, I had a knack for being unable to process emotions. I became super good at pushing them away. I had always heard about people having conversations with their loved ones who passed. I supposed they were reaching out for guidance or solace, or maybe just to share their day, but that was never for me. I wouldn’t even know what to say. Perhaps it was because, in my early twenties, you couldn’t tell me anything. I mean, what advice do you seek when you don’t even know that you’re lacking direction? Or perhaps it was because I didn’t believe there was a world beyond this world. Or perhaps it was because I, in fact, did believe there was a world beyond this world, and acknowledging this would mean admitting to myself that my father could see all the things I was doing in my life— the good, the bad, and the ugly— and I would feel ashamed.

In life, my dad was a social worker and a family counselor. He was used to seeing people at their lowest and helping them pick themselves back up. He had a soothing voice and a wicked sense of humor, and I like to imagine that those were his professional superpowers. He died suddenly, and at his funeral visitation, quite a few people my family didn’t know paid their respects. My mom, my brothers and I shrugged at one another, amazed at the scale of his impact. One lady in particular I’ll never forget. She knelt in front of my dad, wept, and placed her hand in the air, and then pushed it toward the casket four times as if to say thank you sooo much before picking herself off the floor and exiting. 

Everyone tells me I was laughing and cracking jokes at my dad’s visitation. That’s what I do. I am always making others feel comfortable. Maybe it’s a gift. Maybe it’s a flaw. Apparently, finding the humor in that day was something of a family trait. 

“What?!” My mom let out a laugh as she, my brothers and I approached the casket for the first time. “He never wore his hair like that!” 

Dad’s hair was now combed straight back in thin silver lines held together with a gel. Did the mortician even bother to look at a picture of him? And then it dawned on me. Dad had something of a signature comb over that disguised a receding hairline. Sometimes, if caught in a gust of wind, John Johnson’s front comb over would unfurl— no, it would unfold— and end up looking like a foot-long feather fascinator attached to the side of his head. There is no way any mortician could have cracked the code of that comb over. 

Faced with this new hairline, Mom giggled and looked at all her boys. 

“But,” she added more softly, turning back to Dad. “I think he looks nice.” 

In the years following the funeral, there’s really no reason I shouldn’t have tried to speak out to my father, except for one— I was closed off. Things all started to change when I rediscovered a book a friend gave me right after I lost my dad. I failed in my first attempt at reading it. The bookmark, still wedged in at page eleven, was a hospital ID bracelet I earned from a trip to the ER the summer he passed away. I had been having regular dizzy spells that the doctor chalked up to anxiety attacks. 

A few years and a thousand deep breaths later, I read the book cover to cover. The author was a medium, someone who claimed to have the gift of connecting people with their loved ones who have “crossed over.” The subject began to fascinate me. I watched any documentary I could find in which mediums passed on messages to clients, all hopeful to reconnect or find closure with a loved one. There was always a moment that even the skeptics couldn’t sidestep— the moment when the medium would bring up a private detail that the dead and the living once shared, a detail they had never told anyone. With the clients, whether they were believers or skeptics, this was always the moment of connection. Real tears would flow from real people. Watching these connections from the comforts of my couch, I discovered real tears flowing from me— in floodgate proportions. Now, I still didn’t have the words, and so I didn’t ask God or the universe for anything. But I believe this was the moment that I became open. The only way I can explain it is that my soul called out for a sign. 

That’s when it started happening. The dragonfly visits. In time, I was chased, I was circled, and I was hovered upon by these creatures. These weren’t just dragonflies passing by. They were dragonflies directing their energy at me. The visits were sporadic, but I began to notice they weren’t random. The visits synched up with times when I was needing something, times when I may have been “going through it.” Or times when I needed to wake up and make some changes. Or times that I just needed a father’s presence. 

Gradually, feelings of awe settled into feelings of protection. I’ve been a school teacher for two decades. Since this all began, typically on the first day of school as I get into my car, a dragonfly will circle my drive continuously until I pick up speed and pull off the lot. Twenty-five minutes later, another one will circle my car as I pull into my parking spot at home a state away. Safe passage through the year, I tell myself. 

In one early encounter, I started to drive off the school lot when one such visitor hovered at eye level on the other side of the windshield. I gripped the wheel and leaned forward, my foot holding onto the break enough to advance at about three miles per hour. He was staring at me and flying backwards, keeping pace with my car. We were locked. It was time. But what do you say to someone you haven’t spoken to in years? Just to break the ice, I opened my mouth and said, “Hiiii.”

June 24, 2012 || The people closest to me knew about the dragonfly visits, but they had never witnessed one. I was careful to tell only friends who would be receptive. Adrian and Alethea were two of those people, and we were all at the same pool party, sitting on the hot marble edge of the shallow end. June 24 is a date that I always see coming. I anticipate it, and I give it reverence when it arrives. But this year, I didn’t see it coming. We were all kicking our feet in the water, enjoying the sun and the people-watching when suddenly the wind knocked out of me. I leaned back and gasped.

“What’s the matter?” Alethea looked concerned.

“Nothing,” I said, repositioning myself. “I just realized that today it’s been exactly eleven years since my dad passed away.” Without missing a beat, two dragonflies flew from the right and hovered directly in front of us for a few seconds before darting off to the left. 

Alethea was stunned. “Woooooow.”

Adrian held his hands up, shrugged, and said, “I believe.”

October 15, 2016 || I was in Palm Springs, California. The desert air of the Coachella Valley and the majesty of San Jacinto mountain always manage to refresh and reset my soul. I was there attending a celebration, but that day I wasn’t in a celebratory mood. It was early afternoon, and around the pool of the rental house was Adrian and his friend Victor and Victor’s dog Jackson, an Australian Cattle Dog. While those two guys were catching up and carrying on, I isolated myself at a table next to a palm tree and read a book.

I sensed a commotion brewing. Jackson was barking and running from one side of the pool deck to the other, chasing something. 

“What is it?” Adrian asked.

“A dragonfly,” Victor answered. At that, I tossed the book on the table, jolted up, and ran to see Jackson nosing around a dragonfly that seemed to be struggling on the pool deck. I scooped up the yellow guy and carried him over to the covered patio on the side of the house. His wings were completely intact, and he seemed fine, just tired. The big yellow dragonfly proceeded to walk up and down my right forearm for a couple minutes. I took a video with my left hand. I talked to him.

“Hey guy. Do you need someplace to rest? Are you at the end of your life span? You can stay here as long as you like.” He wouldn’t leave me though, so eventually I took my fingers and gently set him down in the shaded rocks by the privacy fence and said goodbye. A few minutes later, I checked and he was gone.

That evening, we all had dinner at a nice restaurant at the foot of the mountain. I was waiting for the food to arrive when a text buzzed in. It was Andy messaging all of us brothers: “Hey guys, I just realized that today would have been Dad’s 80th birthday. I can’t believe he’s been gone this long, and it’s sad to think of all the stuff he’s missed.” 

Woah. Unlike the day of his passing, my father’s birthday was something I would often forget over time.

For the second time that day, I jumped up from the table and dashed-- but this time I excused myself. “You guys, yeahhh, I have to deal with something real quick,” I said, indicating that the issue was on the other end of my phone.

Just outside the door of the restaurant, I sat on the curb, took a breath, and braced my thumbs for the monumental task they were about to undertake. I had to, in one group text, tell my brothers about the dragonfly visits over the years. I had never shared that part of me with them. But I also had to tell them about how Dad spent his 80th birthday with me. It sounds crazy, but I had to tell them— because then they would know that Dad spent his 80th birthday with them, too.

I knew the visits were a gift. I was just learning that it was a gift that was meant to be shared.

June 25, 2019 || Chappy, a tattoo artist at Iron Age Studios, was putting the final touches of color on my half sleeve. The mild bee stings on my arm were worth it as I watched the creation of art in real time. I had spent weeks designing it, then re-working it. The palm trees and the dragonflies I traced from scientific sketches. I asked Chappy to design the background infill. A couple of months earlier, he recommended enlarging the dragonflies to achieve greater detail. I’m so glad he did. 

I feel like it’s worth noting that in the two years that followed my getting the tattoo, the visits all but stopped. With the exception of the first days of school— safe passage through the year— there were no dragonflies circling me and none directing their energy at me. Is it because I permanently affixed one to my body that there was no need for a visit? Is it because I made a major life change and I was finally happy? It was sort of nice to know that I was on the right path, but bittersweet because I missed the visits. 

Wait. Is it because someone else needs support even more than me? 

In a few months time, my oldest brother Matt called. “Nick, I have been meaning to tell you about these really weird dragonfly experiences I’ve been having lately.”

July 14, 2021 || As it turns out, Dad was just waiting to make his grand re-entrance into my life. It was on the same day that something compelled me to drive past the house where I grew up.

Our energy is wrapped around our childhood homes. I think that’s why over the years people who once grew up in our century-old home in west Belleville occasionally stopped by to visit and take a look, and maybe to touch the walls and tell a story. There was no doubt I would one day be that stranger who would ask to touch the walls of the Granvue house once again, lured in by a gravitational pull.

Our old four square stucco house on Granvue Drive boasted three bay windows, a huge screened-in back porch, a greenhouse, and a wickedly steep hill for kids to sled down into the winter woods. As glorious as it once was, Mom was having trouble with the upkeep and was starting to have her sights set on finding a one-story home to live out her golden years. When she found a historic charmer in downtown Belleville, she jumped on the chance to buy it. She quickly moved in and put the Judy Johnson touch all over her new sanctuary. 

The one problem was that she hadn’t put the Granvue home up for sale yet. It needed so much work, work that would need to be done with the help of my underemployed brother Chris, work that would never get done or even get started. Over time, the abandoned home became a flophouse. It was a nuisance property, and the driveway was a hoarder's delight. People even dumped their own garbage and yard waste— metric tons of it— off the edge of the driveway that slid into the woods. The house was falling further into the abyss, and worse than that, it was a huge liability. 

With our coaxing, Mom finally knew she had to unload the old house, and list it as-is and for next-to-nothing. It sold within a matter of minutes. The buyer wanted to rehab it and possibly live in it himself. I loved the idea that it would be given a new life and that another family might grow up there. Upon completion, my high school friend Emily sent me the new listing. “Have you seen this?” I hadn’t. The Granvue house was not only restored, it was reimagined. The man had vision. It was now a showstopper. 

It would soon be time to see the showstopper for myself. July 14 brought me back to the west end of Belleville, and after meeting some colleagues for lunch, for some reason I felt compelled to drive past the old Granvue house to see what it looked like, lived in.  I wasn’t planning on knocking on the door and asking for a tour; it was too soon for that. The new owner had only lived there for six months. Also, in COVID times you don’t just knock on a stranger’s door and ask to be invited in. Just a drive by, that’s all. As I rounded the corner and passed the house I saw an elderly woman in the side yard, smoking a cigarette and holding a wide stance as if to keep balance. She scrutinized my car as I passed the house and slowed to turn around and double back. Ok, I have to stop and talk to her.

I pulled the car into the neighboring driveway about ten feet from her and rolled down the passenger window. I leaned across the console. “Excuse me, ma’am. I just want to tell you that I grew up in this house.”

She lit up. “Oh really? This’ my son’s house. I just flew in from New Orleans this morning.”

“Really? That’s terrific. I love New Orleans. How was your flight?” 

She must have detected some sweetness in my voice because she said, “Babe, it was rough. I’ve been up since THREE. A. M.” 

“Oh no!” I sympathized, shifting the car into park. “Do you mind if I get out and chat for a minute?”

“Come on outta that car.” 

I turned off my Honda, circled the front, and stood near the passenger side window, which was still open. “My name’s Nick, Nick Johnson.” In the era of no handshakes, the warmth of our voices reaching across the space between us felt more like a hug.

“I’m Delores. My son is Terrence.” She flashed a smile that at one time must have been full of teeth.

“Nice to meet you, Delores.”

During the entire forty-five minute conversation, her half cigarette never burned, if it was ever even lit at all. 

“One of these days,” I said, “not today, but one of these days, I’m going to ask Terrence for a tour. So tell him that down the road some white guy named Nick is going to come knocking at the door.”

“Oh, he would honestly love that. Terrence is at work right now, but he is off on Saturdays. You should come back then.”

Visiting the house through Delores’ eyes was good enough for me. “Don’t you just love your son’s new house? I saw the pics from the listing and I was blown away. They did such a great job with the renovation.”

“I love it,” she beamed. “I love the chandelier in the front hallway. I love the chef’s kitchen. I really love the big back porch.”

“Yes!” I was about to tell her about the family dinners we had out there in the spring and fall when her tone shifted.

“But that ghost!” She stopped and widened her eyes at me.

I was stunned.  “What? We never had a ghost!” My family lived there over forty years and never had a single paranormal experience.

“Oh yeah. There’s a ghost. My son told me all about it, and the first time I came to visit, when he left for work, I sat on that couch with a knife in my hand.”

My dropped jaw hid my amusement at the idea that a knife would do anything to help fight off a ghost. 

She relaxed. “But it’s a friendly ghost, we’ve learned.” 

“Delores, that’s so interesting. I have to know. What kinds of things are happening?

She went down the list. “Well, things get knocked off tables. Doors that were closed will be open. Sometimes you can hear someone rustling around in the kitchen …”

She was listing the fourth poltergeist when a dragonfly the size of the giant one on my forearm swooped down below our faces before swooping back up. It sounded like a little helicopter.  Delores and her voice went out of focus for a moment. I looked down and coughed a smile. Dad, are you messing with these nice people? What the hell? I shook my head.

Suddenly, Delores came back into focus. “And then, one time— oh, Terrence has a six-month-old baby girl-- and this one time, he came to get her from the crib and her socks had been taken off and piled up. And he’s a single dad. No one else was in the house.”

That’s when the dragonfly swooped back down for an elaborate show. He flew right past me into the passenger side window of my car, did a loop inside my Honda and zoomed back out the window and was off. He was loud. We both jumped back, but I stayed frozen in shock. 

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “That was just a dragonfly.”  

“I know! Delores,” I stepped forward and showed her my tattoo. “The ghost is my dad.”

“Ohhhhhh,” she examined my arm, smiling. She didn’t seem too rattled by the experience we just shared. She carried on like it all made sense. 

I added, “My dad was so kind, and I want to assure you and your son that he would never do anything to harm you.”

“Oh we know. He’s just there, trying to make himself known.”

Delores attracted spirits like I attracted dragonflies. She told me when her children were little, they found a box of mens clothes from the 1920s or 30s in the attic of their New Orleans home. They wanted to play dress up with all the funny-looking clothes. “I told them, ‘Don’t you go playing in that man’s clothes.’” But they were kids, and they did. That is when Delores saw a man walk right in front of her across the living room and disappear into the front door. “I told you, stop playing in that man’s clothes. Now, put them back in the box and put them away forever.”

I wanted to talk more about my old house, but Delores just wanted to talk. She told me about how when was really sick recently, Terrence took care of her and bathed her. Her other sons shuddered at the idea. I don’t know why it mattered, but it felt like a blessing to learn that a good family man with a great heart was living in our old home. 

“And the neighbors!” She added. “The neighbors brought over all sorts of welcome baskets when he moved in. Just last week they invited him to a block party. He told them, ‘But I have a six-month-old baby.’ They said,‘Bring your six-month-old baby!’ and he did. It’s been real nice for him.”

“This neighborhood has always been the greatest,” I said. “I had the best childhood on this street. I hope your granddaughter gets to grow up here too.”

Delores and I could have chatted for hours, but I wanted to let her rest and recover from her travel day. And she probably wanted to finish that cigarette. “Goodbye, Delores! Tell Terrence, I’ll be back some Saturday way down the road.”

I had the car ride home to process the idea that my dad was casually haunting the house he passed away in. But why now and why not when we lived there? The second I got home I was going to FaceTime my brother Matt.

He answered. I spilled the story. We debated over why any ghost would be haunting the place now and not before. “Well, I have heard that spirits can become active after a house goes under a major renovation,” Matt offered. 

I countered. “But somehow I felt guided to drive by our old house today. And somehow in that moment, there was a lady outside who was open to talking to me. So maybe this was another way for Dad to tell us that he is still around. And who knows, maybe after this, the hauntings will stop.” 

One Saturday, I will introduce myself to Terrence, and I’ll find out.

August 21, 2021 || Just over a month later, the universe upped its game. Julie and her boyfriend Mike invited me to go to his family’s lake house in Bonne Terre, Missouri. There were eight of us, and the full moon set the scene for the weekend. Julie and I had known each other through mutual friends, but we hadn't had the chance to spend time getting to know each other’s story. I had been around long enough to witness Julie cycle through a few boyfriends. But Mike was a keeper. We all knew that. 

Friday night, Mike and I swapped stories about our love of writing, and we promised to swap a few of our creations with one another. We all took turns being the DJ in the tiki bar, which is a sign of a good night.

Saturday morning found us all a bit groggy. After breakfast and coffee, the tiki bar by the boat dock was once again the gathering spot. Not quite ready for the group, Julie and I sat in two lounge chairs by the extinguished fire pit. 

The subject of tattoos came up, and I thought it was a good time to share the story behind mine.  “The visits I’ve had from dragonflies are signs from my dad. Over time, I just knew that’s what they were.” 

She shared that her mother passed away when Julie was only fourteen. I felt bad for her, and I was also sensing her frustration.

“Do you ever have any signs that your mother is around?”

“No.” Her frustration was now apparent. “Well, I mean, I did get a sign the moment she died.” She went on to explain that she was on a school bus taking a field trip, and at the moment her mom passed away she experienced the wind knocked out of her. I shared a similar experience. Those kinds of occurrences remind us that there is something metaphysical about our connections with family members. 

“But have you received any signs since then that she is around?”

“No.” I could tell she was wanting them.

“Well, maybe a sign from her is that you and Mike are together. Maybe she guided you two to find each other. You never know.”

She reacted with an unvoiced maybe.

“But if you are looking for a sign from your mother, just be open to it. Ask for it. You won’t know what it will be, but you’ll know it when you see it.”

She digested my advice for a moment before I said, “Let’s go join the group.”

We both walked over to the tiki bar when some really pretty yellow and brown winged insect landed on my arm just above my tattoo. “What is this?” I asked the group at the tiki bar.

“A mayfly,” someone answered. 

Julie was behind me. I turned around. “Look, Julie. Julie, look.”

Julie’s crystal blue eyes stared at the mayfly and then at me in disbelief. Then back at the mayfly. Then back at me. My eyes said, here it is. Her mom didn’t miss a beat. 

This beautiful insect just kept hanging on. Julie walked away and came back several times to see the mayfly stuck to my arm. Each time she returned she had a new sense of astonishment. We took pictures from all angles, and a few selfies with our new little winged friend. She started putting on a show. Her two tail pieces spread out and back, out and back. It was like she was saying hi.

“She’s beautiful. What was her name?”

Julie told me her mom’s name and her nickname. Julie walked away and came back one last time to look. No one else in the group had any idea what we were up to.

“She’s not going anywhere,” I said quietly. “I'm not going to let her go. Whenever you’re ready, I want you to release her. And do it with intention.”

Julie paused and looked at the mayfly for a long while. She didn’t say anything out loud, but I could tell she was speaking to her mom with intention. She sweetly scooped the mayfly off my arm and launched her up, and it flew away. 

“Look,” Julie said, pointing up to the roof of the tiki bar just above us. “She landed right up there.”

“You know why? She’s telling you that she’s always looking down on you.” My eyes began to water a bit. To say it out loud was a reminder for myself.

When you know, you know. And we knew what we just experienced. I am so glad Julie received a gift from her mother that day.

I thought about the experience on my drive home from the lake. It was a mayfly. It had to be a mayfly because I had just told her about how the dragonfly was my sign. Also, the mayfly couldn’t have landed on her, as she might have screamed or brushed it off as one does with an insect. It had to land on me. I was the conduit. That day, the dragonfly effect had become transcendent. 

I don’t claim to understand this gift fully. Heck, if we had all the answers, what would be the point of living anyway? What I can say with certainty is there are no coincidences. The synchronicities are intentional. To further that point, within a week after the lake trip, Julie, Mike, and I accidentally ran into each other twice— once at a restaurant and once at a Tshirt shop. Both times, Julie and I looked at each other and laughed, a little freaked out at the same time. The synchronicities were reminders for her about her mom’s ongoing presence. The synchronicities were reminders for both of us that our paths were meant to cross. 

“Hey man. Nice ink. What’s the significance of it?”

“The dragonfly represents my father.” Reactions vary. Responses are typically very positive and sometimes engaging, but I filter them out as soon as the stranger walks away. I’m not sure what feedback you’re supposed to expect when you tell people you wear your heart on your sleeve.