A Kiss Premonition and The Man On the Bus

When I was in high school, I was in a long-term relationship with a young man (who later became my husband), when he decided to attend the United States Military Academy. Friends and family felt the need to warn me that the military would "change" him -- that he would lose his personality. That he would become cold and distant. Fortunately, this did not happen and my humorous, warm and demonstrative husband remained so. However, these assumptions of those around us became a running joke between the two of us and he would always pretend to stiffen up when I kissed him. Perhaps it was because of this that I began having recurring dreams (nightmares, actually) of my attempting to communicate, embrace and kiss him only to be met with a catatonic lack of response. I began having the dream frequently and they lasted for years. In every dream, I was sobbing uncontrollably while he remained lifeless and unmoved by my grief. Fast forward to several years later -- my husband was killed in an automobile accident. It was not until I found myself leaning over to kiss him goodbye that I was instantly jolted into realizing that my nightmare had become my reality. Fast-forward again to a few months following this nightmare. My son and I were in a crowded bus on our way to a Farm show four hours from home. For some reason, my son was asking several questions on this day about his father's accident. While I attempted to answer his inquiries as best as I could, a man, who happened to be sitting in the seat directly in front of us turned around and asked if we were talking about the accident that took place a few months ago. We were. He told us that he happened to be the first person to arrive at the scene of my husband's accident, and held his hand at the moment he passed. To this day, I do not know for sure if he was being fully honest about my husband's condition at the time in which he arrived, but he assured us that my husband died instantly and felt no pain, so this is the story I choose to believe. When he extended his hand to me and I took it, I was painfully aware that I was holding the hands of the man who was the last person in the world to hold the hand of my deceased husband. He just happened to be in two places that year, once on a lonely snow-covered road in the middle of nowhere, where and accident had just occurred and a man lay, dying, and a few months later on a bus within earshot of the man's widow and their little boy who happened to be talking about that night.