Right after my husband and I got married and were getting some photos taken, I looked down and something caught my eye in the grass. It was a small square card with the letter C handwritten on it.

“Thanks for coming, Cindy,” I thought as I picked it up and tucked it in my lace bag.

I still have it with my other keepsakes of the day.

I picked up Dad’s ashes the week after he passed. In passing our lawyer had mentioned that the cemetery where Dad’s grandfather is buried, does cremations. So, anticipating what was coming, I had pre- arranged for him to be cremated there- the place just a couple of weeks before we had roamed with a map searching for his grandad’s grave. And we found it.

Dad was still alert and speaking then and remembered being there as a child doing the same search. He remembered the grave on a hill overlooking the mountains in the distance. Just as it was.

When I picked up his ashes that day, I drove back up to the gravesite and just sat the open white cardboard box next to the headstone. I wasn’t ready to take the black plastic box out, which will come in time.

I stood for awhile with them both, in the peaceful air, reflecting on what a miracle it was that my father came back to his roots to complete his life cycle. And how none of us realized this when I felt so drawn to move to this area.

So many other synchronicities that I may write about another day.

When I brought Dad home I didn’t know what to do with that box. We will spread his ashes later next year in grand style , but for now I don’t know. I’ve never been in possession of someone’s ashes before and don’t want to just stick them away in a closet or cupboard, but where do I put them?

As I walked back to our bedroom, John’s piano in our dining area caught my eye. The marble lazy Susan on top was just there, empty.

I knew that was the spot to place the box, at least for now.

When I walked up to set it on the marble circle, something caught my eye.

There she was again at a momentous time, reminding me she’s never far when we need her. No idea how or when that little bead ended up there, and it was the first time I’d seen it- and the only one.

Just one C. There was just one Cindy. And I sure felt her presence that night as I sat with Dad in those final hours coaxing him to look for her, and the motion sensor alarm that I had set in the off position earlier, started alarming. Someone had entered the space and the motion sensor (positioned on the floor for fall risk patients) picked it up. Who else would it be?

So there he sits with Cindy, again.

I find comfort in these signs. I went over to look at it again this morning and there they are, still together.

And here John and I are, still together as well, grieving and dreaming of ways we will take our family name out in style.