I made a big mistake the other night. My son wanted to stay up and watch a certain movie he had recently heard about. It was already getting late, I was tired, but I relented. So we were off to the local Blockbuster to rent The Sixth Sense. I should have known the inevitable would happen:

I see dead people.

Specifically, during a run the next morning, I saw my father walking a dog. Now, I only got a glimpse of him. He was turning a corner in the distance. I think it was him. The guy sure looked a lot like him, carried himself in that easy, slump-shouldered manner that marked my father’s later years. Of course, my little story carries a little less weight given the fact that my dad died more than ten years ago.

Still, I was glad to see him.

And that wasn’t the only time either. I’ve seen other men who look like my father, smile like him, share his piercing blue eyes. That always freaks me out a little. And more often than that, I hear him. My dad had the most open, joyful, hearty laugh I’ve ever heard. So I hear him in crowds, or at parties sometimes. Or when my son laughs. Even when I do.

Yeah, there’s no doubt in mind that he’s there. Somehow.

And it gets stranger.

My mother keeps the neatest house, perfect, clutter- and dust-free. But I remember her telling me shortly after my father died that she started finding dimes. In the hallway. On the kitchen counter. At the top of the stairs. And she was sure that my father was leaving them for her. Sure, Mom. Sure he was.

Then I started paying attention, and there they were. Dimes. Everywhere. Every few days, I’d find a dime. Each time, I stop and think:

“Okay, Dad. What’s the message here? Am I too stuck in my head? Am I making the wrong call? Am I missing something important? Do you want me to just take a moment and breathe?”

And each time, of course, the question answers itself.

Why dimes, you might ask. Well, I can’t say I can fully explain it, but when he was alive, my dad wanted very little to do with money. He effectively lived on an allowance system. My mother would give him five bucks, and that would do until it was gone. He often said he didn’t have two nickels to rub together. I never thought to ask whether he had dimes.

The dimes also feel like a lifeline to him, like he’s never more than a phone call away. And dad used pay phones.

My wife was recently reading The Horizontal World: Growing Up in the Middle of Nowhere, a sweet memoir of coming of age in the Dakotas by Debra Marquart. A significant portion of the book is dedicated to the death and memory of her father. While reading, Julie gasped suddenly and grabbed my arm. Astonished, she pointed to the text:

“My father leaves me dimes.”

Her story mirrored mine exactly. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Who else is leaving dimes?

And I suppose this all begs the question: If we remain available to those already gone, do they ever really go?

Thanks, Dad. You can keep the dime.