My father died in July of 1999. I was living in Tennessee at the time, and got THE call from my brother. He only calls me when there’s bad news.

I boarded my flight and headed back to the Bay Area to assist in the arranging of burying my father.

Now, my family is the poster family for dysfunctional. Before I even thought of getting on that flight, I was at my doctors office getting some mothers little helpers for this gathering I was so not looking forward to. Thank God for Xanex.

So, there I am with my brother, having an extremely difficult time with this. Issues between us are surfacing, without my permission I might add, and getting through this ordeal is even harder than I expected! Even with the wonder drug in my hot little hands!

So within minutes after the funeral, I am back on the plane, heading home. He and I arranged to have my fathers ashes divided into three parts. One for him, one for me, and the last for the urn to be placed in the niche we chose for him at the cemetery. My portion was to be mailed to me. Trust me, through hindsight; this is not something you want to do.

I got home Tuesday night, exhausted from the trip, emotionally, physically and in every other way imaginable.

Sunday morning, we suddenly had one of our tenants pounding hysterically on our slider door. A car had just hit one of the neighbor kids. We rushed outside to see if there was anything we could do and to help best we could. What I saw horrified me.
He had been on his inline skates, and flew out of the neighboring complex right into the path of a car, hitting the car with his head. There was blood and gray matter spewing down the street, and this poor child, only six years old, was unconscious. I couldn’t dial 911 fast enough.

The EMT’s arrived, put him in the ambulance to rush him to Mercy Flight, where he is flown to Vanderbilt Hospital. He was pronounced at five that night.

That was just too much for me to take in one week. What do you tell a mother who just lost a child, especially where if he had been wearing a helmet he might have survived?

All I could think of was that I just lost my father, and he had been an avid fisherman. I was picturing my father right at that very moment with her son and one of our beloved dogs who had gotten killed a few weeks before, Fatso, all sitting on a dock, somewhat like a Norman Rockwell picture, with my father teaching him how to fish. They were both in good hands, with Fatso keeping watch. I’m not sure if those words comforted her, however they comforted my pain, a little.

Well, not long after my then husband and I separated. Issues were going on with he and I just became too much for me to deal with in addition to losing my father. My dad’s ashes were in the back of my mind. September came and went. October arrived, and about the end I realized I still hadn’t received his ashes. I called the Mortuary. I spoke with the gentleman who handled the arrangements, and he assured me he’d take care of it.

Weeks passed and the ashes still weren’t here. So in the beginning of November, I called again, and this time asked for the manager. He pulled up the file, saw what the problem was, evidently something my brother and the rep had not taken care of, and told me he would take care of everything, and not to worry. This was toward the end of November.

I received my fathers’ ashes in the mail with the week of what would have been his birthday, December 7th.

I went into a depression that scared everyone in my life at that time. There is NOTHING, absolutely nothing to prepare you for the onslaught of emotion that engulfs you when you receive one of your parents’ ashes in the mail. I was literally lethargic and practically motionless. And I could not, for the life of me, stop crying. My X came by my apartment to see if I was ok, afraid that I had killed myself from the grief. I had just plain stopped participating in life. Period! There was no function left in me.

Well I saw this segment on ‘Unsolved Mysteries’ about a little boy who died suddenly. He was about 7 or 8, if I recall correctly. His death left the mother, and her sister, who was also very close with this little boy lost, almost like I was at the reception of my dad’s ashes.

This little boy collected pennies. He had jars and jars of pennies, all over his home, all over his aunts home, at his school. He collected them not for their monetary value, but because they were ‘pennies from Heaven’.

Well not long after he died, pennies started appearing, and often times in obscure situations and places. His mother would wipe down the counter, and go back in later, and there would be a penny lying where she had previously wiped. Occurrences like that were constant. The aunt was in a small car crash, and was taken to the hospital. Upon returning from X-ray, went to put on her shoes, found a penny in her shoe. This little boy was evidently letting both of them know he was watching over them.

I watched this hysterically balling my eyes out. I spoke to the ceiling of my apartment, and said, ‘Dad, if you are watching over me, and can hear this, can you do the same thing, send me pennies, to let my know you are still with me?’

Now I’ve got to tell you, my dad and I were extremely close. He taught me how to shoot, how to work on cars, how to drive truck, everything about me. My aunt used to tell him I was the son he never had! (Oh my brother fucking hated that… wait, he still does!) She used to also say ‘He was the daughter my dad never had’ I think he hated that even worse!

Well, I wasn’t really paying attention to how long it was, but they did start appearing. Some were just as obscure as with the little boy and his mother and aunt. My father was letting me know he was watching over me, and that he was still here. I believe this in my heart of hearts and there’s not a soul that can convince me otherwise!

To this day, whenever I see a penny on the ground, I bend over and pick it up and say ‘Hi Dad’!

So to everyone who is reading this who’s lost someone, here is a penny from heaven.