I believe in coincidence. Just as others take comfort in omens and destiny, I’m at ease believing that life is a roll of the dice. A typical day for me consists of winning, losing or breaking even. Sometimes I’m lucky, sometimes I’m not. I want so badly to believe that fate is in control, but coincidence softens the blows of misfortune.

When I was young, I wanted to encounter a ghost. I’m not really sure why, other than the fact that I’d lost my grandfather, my dad and my dog all before the age of 10. My memory has grown fuzzy, but I’m pretty sure my curiosity about the afterlife served as a means to connect with loved ones I’d lost.

Thinking about it now, I can’t help but wonder how I would have handled making the acquaintance of a ghost. Knowing me, I would have been annoyed by the timing of my haunted friend’s visit and expressed displeasure at them not calling before popping in. To this day, I still hate the unannounced pop-in, but that’s for another column.

As I reached adulthood, I accepted that the supernatural was superseded by reality. It just didn’t seem to exist. Occasionally, I became frustrated with the wonder of what I was doing wrong. After all, I’ve talked to people with claims of supernatural entities visiting them, as well as those stumbling upon signs that were mystical in nature.

Last week I was riding home late at night from Birmingham with my wife, Shannon, and my mother when the conversation shifted to omens and signs from the dead. I was quick to express my disappointment at being left off the short list of those who have been nudged by the dearly departed.

Shannon remarked, “That’s because you’re not giving off the right vibrations.” Her accusation was quickly followed by my mom saying, “She’s right. You have to allow yourself to feel vulnerable.” I rolled my eyes and yawned. I proceeded to defend my position on the subject and quickly realized the only vibrations I offered were coming from my mouth. The more I talked, the less I made sense, even to myself.

I drove on into the darkness, staring at the white lines on the road. The car fell silent, as it tends to do after small bursts of energetic late-night pontification. I had rolled the dice of doubt and quickly crapped out. There’s nothing more pure than a conversation you can’t walk away from. I wondered what waited to be said next.

“Don’t you have a special story about dimes?” Shannon asked my mother. I knew the tale before my mom began to speak. I’d heard it my whole life. I also knew for a fact Shannon was familiar with the account, but perhaps she needed to hear it again. Storied experiences are like that; they’re comforting.

I won’t recount my mother’s entire experience of dimes and their meaning to her, but I’ll sum it up as only a loving, doubting, frequently bone-headed son could do.

Right around the time of my dad’s suicide, my parents didn’t have much money. My father had made some poor decisions, and times were tough. One morning, my mother, fraught with despair, was doing laundry. She reached down to pull the loose change from the dryer and came up with a dime. Subsequently, my oldest sister walked in holding coins and said, “Mom, I’m going to the store to buy candy, and I just need one more dime.” My mother paused, turned around and placed the very dime she was holding into my sister’s hand.

From that day on, dimes have unassumingly appeared in random places throughout my mom’s life. When she is in touch with her emotions, happy or sad, a dime appears on the ground or in the pocket of a jacket. The synchronicity is quite curious.

As I barreled down I-20, I doubled down on doubt and muttered something to the effect of, “Maybe we see what we’re looking for.”
The two most important women in my life had heard enough.

“You’ll know when a sign is meant for you,” my mother remarked.

The following day I awoke with a melancholic feeling. I’ve always tried to believe in something greater, but perhaps I’d recently lost my way. Around lunchtime, I was walking through a parking lot with my head down and my vulnerability up. Then suddenly a glare caught my eye. It was a lone dime at my feet, shining up at me.

Later that afternoon, I called my mother and told her of my 10-cent encounter. I asked her if something greater might be mocking me. She laughed and gently said, “Only you have that answer. The sign was meant for you.”

Clay Bowen is a Columbus native who cooked professionally as a chef in fine dining for 12 years and appeared on the third season of Top Chef. He is also a licensed landscape horticulturist. Email him at [email protected].

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