My days of wanting to believe like Fox Mulder are long gone; I'm definitely a skeptical Scully these days. When people are spooked by a ghost, I figure their imaginations have gotten the best of them. When friends mention wanting to visit a psychic, I sigh - if the psychic is any good, it's only due to excellent observation skills and logic. There is a very worldly, scientific basis for everything, even if we just don't know what it is yet.
My grandmother's dimes - always bright and shiny - appear in the oddest places. They've fallen out of library books, glistened on wooded trails, and stuck to my shoes; one even rolled across a hallway when no one else was there. The dimes usually appear when I most need my grandma, such as when I'm having a bad day or am celebrating a success, i.e. those moments I used to share with her when she was alive. Today had one such moment.
This morning, there was an inspection on what is supposed to be my first house. It was so bad that the inspector didn't even need to complete it. Contract withdrawn and counter offer in place, I left dismayed, thinking I'd never get a house. More importantly, I'd wouldn't get this house, the one I had come to love. As my parents and I walked back to the car, my mom handed me something she had found in the vacant house - a dime. A grimy, encrusted one.
"I don't know what she's trying to tell you," my mom said, "but she's here."
"It just needs a little shining," I said, looking back at the house.
Perhaps I too am seeing what I need to see, grasping for meaning from cast-off currency. But for now, not only do I want to believe, I do believe.