Grandma Leaves Me Coins (Part Two)

I’ve been convinced for some time now that my grandma leaves me coins to let me know she loves me and is still with me. I’m not sure how it works exactly, but I have my theories, as you can read in the original “Grandma Leaves Me Coins” essay.

She leaves them strategically, exactly at moments when I particularly need to know she’s with me.

She frequently leaves them for me at the theater where I perform improv comedy. This makes sense, logically speaking, because the theater is behind a bar and people often drop coins, so of course I’d find more coins there.

What logic doesn’t explain is how, when we cleaned out their house after Grandpa’s death, we found coins in every nook and cranny, in every drawer, in every wallet, jewelry box, crevice, and box. Pennies, dollars, quarters, half dollars. The place overflowed with coins. At one point, Dad handed me a silver dollar and said, “There. Now your grandpa leaves you coins too.”

Yes, yes. Of course he does. Yes.

In a box in the garage, Mom found a gift of coins from Grandma to her four grandchildren: Four brand new electronic coin banks, still in their boxes. A gift from beyond this world. Coins.

Explain it. I’m sure you can. I’m sure it’s just coincidence or confirmation bias or some other scientifically validated phenomenon. Randomness in action.

I’m sure you can explain it away, I’m sure you’re perfectly capable, but I won’t believe you.

On Saturday night, there was a bright, shiny penny in the coat room where we leave our things during performances at the theater. I picked it up, of course, and put it in my pocket. On the way home that night, there was another penny in a crack in the sidewalk, an old, beat-up, dark brown, dented and pockmarked penny. I picked it up and put it in my pocket too.

Then I gradually started freaking myself out. I got to wondering if maybe Grandma doesn’t approve of my performances at the theater. Maybe she thinks they’re too worldly. Maybe she’s trying to tell me that before the performance, I’m a bright and shiny penny, and afterward I’m dirty.

Because this is the ridiculous way my mind works sometimes. Because Grandma would never have gone to so much trouble to be judgmental.

Ridiculous, but it worried me.

Until Grandma reached out and showed me the truth.

Sunday afternoon, we headed back to the theater for our weekly practice. In the driveway was a penny. I picked it up. On the car seat was another penny. I put it in my pocket. In the parking lot beside our spot outside the theater, another penny. In the bar behind which we perform, I found a dime. Shiny and new. I put them all in my left pocket. For some reason, I also reached into my right pocket, which had previously been empty. I had just pulled my pants out of the dryer right before leaving the house, and yet–there was now a penny in that pocket.

There was another penny, a shiny, bright, brand new one, in the center of the front seat in the theater. I found one more on my way back in from the bathroom a short while later.

Total: Seven. Seven coins between our house and the theater in the course of an hour. Seven far exceeds the record for a whole day, let alone one hour. Seven is a magic number. Seven is the number of completeness. Seven is the day God rested in the perfection of creation. Seven. Seven is a record-breaking, over-the-top display of abundant love. Seven is the number of coins Grandma left me.

“Don’t stop. Keep playing. I love it when you perform.”

She always did love to watch me perform. She was so proud of me. Is so proud of me.

She thinks I’m perfect.

Grandma leaves me coins.

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