Root Beer Floats and Easter Ghosts
The unseen connections to love
Happy Monday Y’all. I finally had a chance to edit and post this. - Enjoy!
Root Beer Floats
The ritual was simple, but to my dad, it was sacred: a tall fat glass, two scoops of vanilla ice cream, and root beer poured slowly so the foam wouldn’t overtake the rim. He’d hand the floats to my three kids with a magician’s smile. I can still hear it: the clink of spoons, the fizzy sigh of soda meeting cream, my dad’s chuckle as the kids slurped too fast and got brain freeze.
My father loved root beer floats. I could sense they were part of his past. I’d picture him as a young sailor, freshly returned from the war, sliding into a familiar booth at the corner soda shop. The country was celebrating, and with a few extra dollars in his pocket, he could finally afford the luxurious treat.
A root beer float tasted like peace. Like home. Like luxury.
And although I wasn’t a fan of my kids having soda, how could I deny anyone that kind of joy that was being served at the kitchen table?
Root beer floats were his love language—his joy, bubbling over.
Easter Sunday
The kids were worn out from the holiday’s chaos and had drifted off to their rooms. As the night settled in and dessert plates sat with hints of pie, my parents and I lingered at the dining room table.
My husband was in New York for Easter—some event with his siblings that I barely recall. By then, I had grown used to it. Any excuse for a celebration with them, and he was gone. Sometimes it felt like they were his real family, and we were the obligation—a life he didn’t quite know how to live anymore.
It wasn’t always like that. He used to light up around our children—until the diagnosis came: autism.
I’ll never forget when he said, “Our son will be a burden the rest of our lives.”
Yeah, it stung—because I never saw him that way. A challenge, for sure. But a burden? That word landed heavy. I couldn’t understand how anyone could see their own child in that light.
I swallowed the horrendous comment with a huge gulp, but it still sits in the lower left crevice of my small intestine.
So, there I was, entertaining my parents, once again alone. It wasn’t too bad; I learned long ago how to play the happy homemaker, especially during the holidays.
The chatter was light. Conversation about my husband’s absence never came up. There was no need to drag the pink elephant to the table when there was homemade whipped cream to be eaten.
Then, right in the middle of the fragile peace, my dad said, "I’m going to the hospital this week for some tests. I’ve been getting bad headaches."
The Knowing
Just a few tests. Just a few headaches.
Such ordinary words. But the moment they left his lips, time froze—just long enough for me to hear the ancient whisper:
He’s not coming back from this.
Not with medical knowledge or logical deduction. This was bone-deep intuition.
I wanted so badly to grab his hands across the table and plead, “Don’t go. Don’t let them touch you. That hospital will kill you.”
But how do you say that aloud? How do you explain that voices that speak with force are warning you of imminent death and are beating down on your cranium?
Besides, I knew my pleas would be ignored.
I was the crazy one. The one who believed a gluten-free diet could heal the gut and brain of her autistic son. The nut job who declared vaccines a menace to the immune system.
Telling them that an unexplainable voice from beyond warned me he wouldn’t make it out alive if he followed through with his plans would’ve sent my mother into a full-blown tizzy. She’d probably spend the next few days praying to Jesus to have my psychotic delusions cleansed with His blood.
My father, on the other hand, would be more likely to clip out a Dear Abby article about a woman who was psychic, and how Abigail Van Buren said there was some truth to the phenomenon. He’d have dropped by with candy for the kids, with the article neatly folded under the Reese’s, all without my mother knowing.
I stared at him for a moment, gazing into his eyes. I wanted to get a good glimpse into his soul.
On some level, I think he knew, too. I can feel his concern, his fears.
The mourning had already begun, for both of us.
A few seconds later, I realized my mother was seated to my right, patiently waiting for a reaction as she lifted her coffee cup to her lips and sipped the last drops that had long gone cold.
So I let out a deep sigh and said, "I wish you wouldn’t go. You know damn well they’re going to find something. And the next thing you know, you’re trapped in a cycle of tests."
"Give it some more time," I added. "Maybe they’ll go away."
"I’ve had them for a while now," he responded.
I didn’t ask how long. As I said earlier, my requests would be dismissed. So what was the point?
Because love sometimes means honoring someone’s choices—even when those choices feel like knives in your heart.
Even when the voices inside you are screaming “No”.
The date was March 23rd, 2008.
The Hospital
I had just visited my father before the biopsy. He was in good spirits, feeling positive, even robust. He talked about getting out of there—how eager he was to leave the hospital behind.
But because of insurance reasons, he had to stay. If they sent him home, the insurance wouldn’t cover the tests. So he stayed.
Looking back, I wish there was some way, I could have dragged him out of there, refusing to let him go through with it.
But of course I couldn’t.
Twenty-six days after that dreadful Easter eve, my father was dead.
A routine biopsy. A punctured lung. A coma.
Just like that.
I was the last one to see him alive. I went to the intensive care unit where he lay, lifeless. I held his hand in silence. He knew I was there, and that was all that mattered.
Before I left, I anointed his head and feet with frankincense oil.
Frankincense is one of the most sacred and ancient oils in human history, used in spiritual rituals, healing, and burial rites.
Did it do any good? Who the hell knows. But I wanted to offer him something sacred and holy, something that transcended the beeping machines and cold steel bed rails. I wanted him to leave this earth with a ritual of love.
It was my love language—much like his root beer floats.
The Sign
Years have passed. I’m divorced, and my kids are grown, but my son and I still live together.
Easter comes differently now—no pastel colors, no egg hunts. Instead, it’s a day I spend with ghosts—the memories of all I had, and all I lost.
I try to pretend it’s just another day, anxiously waiting for Monday so I can mark it off my 'survived another holiday' checklist.
This year was no different. My son went to a water park, while I kept myself busy tackling grief and laundry piles.
Hours into my fictional ‘just another day” fairytale, my phone buzzed.
It was a text from my son: "Hey, I’m on my way home. I’m going to stop at the store and get some root beer and ice cream. I’m craving a root beer float."
“Ok,” I texted back, still numb to any connection.
My son hasn’t had a root beer float in years—I can’t even remember when. When you’re dairy-free and avoid sugar, those things don’t usually get made in our kitchen. But now, with dairy-free ice cream and sodas made with better ingredients, memories reignite.
A little smile came to my face, because I thought wrapping up the day with my son slurping on root beer floats was the perfect way to celebrate life. For years he couldn’t have anything even remotely resembling a fancy soda shop treat, but now with all the new-fangled foods out there, we could have one together.
Then it hit me—this wasn’t just any dessert my son was now able to enjoy—this was the one my dad used to make—silver spoon in hand, swirling like a wand.
And now, of all days—Easter Sunday, 17 years later—my son craves one?
On the Unseen
Grief never really leaves. It softens. Shifts. Then surprises you when you least expect it.
A song drifting through a car window. The scent of a familiar cologne in a crowded room. A sudden craving for a food you haven’t tasted in years.
These aren’t coincidences. They’re connections.
My son wanting a root beer float wasn’t just a whim that hit him decades after having one, it was a soft whisper from beyond reminding us that love never leaves us. It was a reminder to celebrate peace, home and the little luxuries in life.
I didn’t share any of this with my son. He knew root beer floats taste like love—and there’s no doubt in my mind that as we both slurped joy from our silver spoons, he was remembering his Grandpa’s magic.
Thank Dad!
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Have a beautiful day,
Thea- lover of all things magical