I've been talking do dead people since I was a young girl, mostly to my grandpa who passed when I was quite young.  We loved each other enough to have forged a strong bond, even then.  As of yet, I only have one foot out of the closet, reading only those who ask, rather, beg.

My grandmother, his wife, passed only 10 years ago, and has put in only a couple of brief appearances since then, even though I was very close to her, too.  In this one very eye-opening incident, which happened on Mother's Day of this year, 2003, she would let me know that my grandpa was not the only one I should be talking to anymore.

That Sunday, I was busily running around town taking care of errands with my two young children in the Ford Windstar we had recently purchased.   My last stop was K-Mart, and I was in a hurry to get that last stop completed so we could head home. 

I zoomed into the parking lot, found a parking spot close to the entrance, and quickly nabbed it before anyone else spotted it.  I hurried the kids out of the van and started to dart into the store.  My son, then 10, stopped me with, "Mom!  Who put this flower on the front of the van?"  Lying near the bottom of the slope on the nose of my van was a fuchsia flower, no stem, with a petal missing.  I wasn't sure until later that it was a peony.  I've always believed in gifts from my grandpa, and have received other signs from him, but this was the most tangible.  I thanked him quietly, felt all kinds of love for him, then placed the flower in my purse and headed into the store.

When we got what we needed, I proceeded to the check out line.  There was only one line open.  It was pretty full, but I figured that since I was done with the errands and could stand to be still for a little while and catch my breath.   When I got to the front of the line and started placing my purchases on the counter, I saw a piece of a flower petal on the counter.  It matched exactly the piece that was missing from the flower in my purse.  At that moment my eyes were drawn to the name badge of the quiet woman who was attending to my purchase.  I don't normally look at names; usually I'm far too distracted by my kids or with getting my money ready to pay.  But like I said, my eyes were drawn.  Her name was Bernice.  Bernice is my grandma's name.  It was then I felt almost ashamed that I had not given her more recognition over the years.  I thanked her profusely and promised never to let a moment go without thinking of her.

This actually happened on a K-Mart in Springfield, Ohio, on Derr Road on Mother's Day.  My children were both as awe-stricken as I to see that flower on the van after all the darting around I had done just before we pulled into that spot.

I later learned from relaying this story to my mother that my grandma's favorite flower is the peony.

Thank you for letting me share this story with you and your readers.

Sincerely,

Lori B