This past weekend, we went hiking in the desert of the nearby state park. It was a beautiful day despite a fairly significant breeze, with sun and a bit of clouds and plenty of warmth. The trail was a tiny bit steep here and there, but was still pleasant. There were fossils in the rocks that we passed, and the beginnings of buddings of some of the desert plants. Wee barrel cacti dotted the landscape. There were anthills quietly and steadily growing here and there. It was good.
At the top of one hill, there was a bench for resting. As she sat, Herself spotted a couple of butterflies flitting about: two white ghostly shapes dancing on the breeze, circling one another, investigating this spot and that. She was reminded of the tales of butterflies being a sign from departed souls -- a visitation of loved ones gone ahead -- and she thought of Daisy and Thorbert.
Earlier that morning as she lay in bed, Herself thought she heard a noise outside of the bedroom door. It was very reminiscent of the quiet shuffling noises of one of the dogs waiting for the door to be opened; that was a noise she had heard many times over the years. It could not be Tiny Dog, though, for she has a louder strategy for asking to be let into the room.
Strange.
She waited, and heard it again. And so she got up, and after hesitating with her hand on the doorknob for a moment, opened the door. She looked down. No one was there.
She quietly spoke aloud: "Come on in." She waited patiently a few moments, just in case. And then she closed the door.
She does not believe. Yet, if there is at all a chance that either Daisy or Thorbert might visit somehow, she wants to be sure that they know she remembers and loves them.
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