I speak to the dead. I have the inclination and what's more, I have the opportunity to do so when they are in my presence. But, one can do it anywhere, anytime. They don't have to be there in front of you. To me, that's just nothing that remotely smacks of superstition, mysticism, or mediums. Don't worry; they've never answered back. Well, not like... in words.
More like a small space opens up that keeps me connected to the inevitability of myself in the world from which they might answer. I speak out loud, as if in conversation, where the response is felt rather than heard. “Hi Steven, my name's Stuart and I'm going to bring you into my care for a time. I'm going to remove this pillow out from under your head, if you don't mind..." I feel it a dignity to speak with them. I mean, after all, they've just left not too long ago. They could be watching all this from up there in the corner of the room. How do I know? And before anyone makes any judgements - you don't know either.
Speaking, at that point, is a connection; a bridge crossed over, a veil gently pulled back in order to feel a response. I still speak with my grandmother every now and again and certainly my mom and dad. It brings them to me when they haven't visited my mind for a time. It was just recently at the hospice, that one of the caregivers meekly said “I speak to them...I'm sorry" as if it were something that needed to be either apologized for or mentioned, in case I thought it a little crazy. I don't. “I do too," I said.
Also recently, the dear spouse of a man I briefly cared for, called me up to talk about a few loose ends that I was helping her with, concerned about the cremated remains of her husband, who was sitting for a time on her mantle at home: “Stuart, it's strange. Now that _________ is at home again, I find myself eagerly anticipating scattering him (which is what he wanted when SHE was ready) and not holding him here any longer. In fact, I want to do it as soon as possible. These remains don't belong to me at all." In deeper conversation I discovered that for her, what had happened is that his departure from his body was simply another event, another deeper meaning left to her, and that her conversations with him, at various times in various rooms throughout the house, brought her closer to him than the remains of his body ever could.
Speaking to the dead is an exercise in self-awareness. You open yourself up to the unknown, to faith, to inevitability - and you bring it down into the room and recognize mortality and a spirit within that perhaps you never pondered before. Now, this can be done in a myriad of ways, sure, and it can be done in silence - but believe me, when one is privileged to care for the house of the soul, you need no routine, no guideline to follow. One recognizes the universe within that has just flown.
Speak with real words if you're so inclined. Strange at first, maybe. But what do you care? Who's listening in judgement? You are! Stop kicking yourself for those “weird" things you do. There is no “weird" in it, if it brings you to who and what you really are. If it brings healing. There is strength in vulnerability, power in exploration.
And think - if the one you love actually CAN hear you once they make themselves known through a tune, a smell, a taste or a word you just read in a book - wouldn't they want to hear your thoughts; that gratefulness carried on the wave of a heartbeat? Wouldn't you? Grief means living with someone who isn't there. If you continue to live with them, you continue the conversation in one way or another. And if anyone hears you by accident, prattle on about this and that with no one else in the room; smile at them. They'll understand - or they won't. Depends on how far they think their love can reach.
SPEAKING TO THE DEAD 
