Some things are meant to leave us wondering.
The other night, something happened that I can’t explain.
I’d had a difficult day. The kind that leaves you restless and reaching for things to comfort you—not necessarily in the same old way, but that familiar instinct to find something to make whatever you’re feeling a little quieter.
Okay… here’s the part I almost didn’t share.
Over the last six months, every now and then, especially on the harder days, I’ve found a sort of reprieve in a cigarette. It’s not something I’m proud of, and truthfully, every time I light one, I think about all the reasons I shouldn’t. I was even hesitant to share this story because it’s not something I want people to know.
Earlier that evening, I sat in my garage and had a smoke. I hastily left the pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and a book I’d been reading scattered about. I cracked the garage door—maybe a foot—for ventilation.
A couple hours later, I returned to my spot in the garage and stopped. A strange mixture of worry and wonder came over me. It scared me, to be honest.
The things I’d left out had been moved. Not knocked over. Not shifted slightly. Arranged. Neatly.
The pack of cigarettes had been pushed against the bottom step leading into my house. Sitting perfectly on top of the pack was a small flask that belongs to my husband. My lighter had been placed neatly beside them. I don’t even remember seeing the flask in the garage, but I know for a fact I hadn’t touched it.
I was home alone.
I immediately looked around to see if anyone else could have been in the garage. I examined the small opening beneath the garage door and couldn’t imagine how anyone could have maneuvered through it.
It was only me and this perfectly arranged collection of things I couldn’t explain.
For some reason, my first thought was of my grandmother—Grandma Betty—the one who inspired the ladybug mentality.
Grandma Betty and Grandpa Joe
Atlantic City, NJ 1947
She died years ago, and truthfully, I wish we’d been closer. She lived states away, so we only saw her a couple of times a year. She was also a little unforgiving of children. That was the generation, I suppose. Kids were meant to be seen, not heard.
Aside from always admiring her impeccable sense of fashion, I don’t have many memories of her. But there was one conversation we had that I will never forget.
I don’t know that I would even consider it a conversation. It was more of a passing comment she made outside a restaurant years ago. She was a smoker herself, and as she lit a cigarette, she said to me, “Honey, don’t ever start. It’s a terrible habit.”
Standing there, staring at everything in my garage, I was confused. I kept looking for an explanation.
But that flask.
That’s when my mind started racing—as did my heart. I felt like I was being told something. Like Grandma had left me a little sign to trigger that memory.
Of all the random objects that could have been sitting there, I couldn’t get past the flask. It represented something I fought hard to leave behind when I decided I wanted to live differently—to live healthier, clearer, more honestly. And there it was, sitting directly on top of something I know isn’t good for me either.
If it was a message, it wasn’t subtle.
I don’t know what I believe about signs. To be honest, I’ve never given them much thought. My brain likes to organize things through reason. If something strange happens, I call it coincidence, and move on.
But for some reason, I couldn’t do that here.
I don’t know whether the people we’ve loved can somehow find ways to reach us after they’re gone. I don’t know whether the universe occasionally puts things in our path at precisely the right moment. And I certainly can’t prove that what happened in my garage was anything more than a bizarre coincidence with some perfectly reasonable explanation I haven’t figured out yet.
Maybe someday I will. Maybe I’m not supposed to.
Perhaps you’ve experienced something like this. Something that made you wonder whether it was a sign, a coincidence, or simply your mind finding meaning where it needed to.
I think the more interesting question isn’t whether it was a sign, but why it meant something to you. Because whatever occurred, one thought came to me with complete clarity almost instantly:
Remember what you already know. You’ve worked too hard to become the person you are now to stop taking care of her.
So I listened. I threw everything in the garbage.
I wish I could explain what happened, but maybe we don’t need to know where the message came from to learn from it.
There’s something beautiful about being left to wonder. And the next time I feel like reaching for a smoke, I think I’ll let myself wonder instead.
Written by: Parwick
Photo credit: Unknown, 1947
