THEY’RE NOT JUST BOOKS

They’re OUR books. Some of which were “mysteriously grouped” together last week. Each one book is oddly and peculiarly relevant to my life. I was confused about how such a strange “rearrangement” could happen. But now I get it. Put simply, my mother put those books there.  For me to discover and understand why.

We hadn’t known she was “back.” When she “visited” before, It was never an unpleassnt occurrence We experienced sweet, fruity aromas which came to us for many years, always waking us from deep sleep. And, there were the beautifully needlepointed (by her) chairs which frequently found themselves oddly and somewhat disturbingly “rearranged.” And now, we have the books.  And of course, the bookends. 

I’d always admired those little “cardinal” bookends. But, they were hers and I’d been told, many times, that when she died I was to have nothing from her house. But I really liked those bookends so I politely waited until she died and then I stole them. I figured she’d never know. 

I should have known better, of course. One doesn’t mess with spirits.  They see and know everything. And they have their own style of communication. We just have to be open for it, as difficult as that may be.

As it turns out, this is all good. Very good. By seeing those books lined up together and the bookends doing their bit, there is a strange sense of peace. There’s understanding and appreciation. Between mother and daughter. Even after all these years.

You may now feel free to call me crazy. I’ve been called worse. But it’s my story and I’m sticking to it.