Written by Isabel Dickey
When you find a dime left around, it’s because someone is sending you a message from beyond the grave. It doesn’t count if it’s next to other change. Just a dime, alone on the floor, or on the sink, maybe on the kitchen counter. Whoever you’ve lost is missing you. Wherever your old dog is, they found a new tennis ball and want to play. Your great aunt wants to say hello. Your uncle is cheering with you because the Phillies finally won a game.
Margo died when I was seven. She was the constant presence in the back room of my old house, my first friend. I remember her as the sweet woman who liked to buy her chocolate in three pound bricks and bust it into chunks with a hammer. A bright yellow bathroom and fluffy blue carpet. Teal satin heels. We loved going on walks through the arboretum. Going up the road to play on the swings.
To others, Margo was tough. You might call her uptight, or unrelenting. Maybe it was the old school Irish Catholic and Lithuanian in her blood. She wanted things her way, and you were not to step out of line. You were to eat all of the food on your plate before you were excused, you were to wear the clothes she made for you, you were to take care of your siblings and your family first. Clean, neat, traditional. Born and raised in a time where things had not yet changed.
My girlfriend and I have been dating for over two months now. I often think about the choices I’ve made and who I grew up to be since she passed. What would she think? I haven’t seen a dime in a long time, but I found three yesterday. I wonder what Margo wants to tell me.
Me, modeling in Margo’s room, wearing the teal satin heels and a nightgown she made.”
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