Pennies from Heaven
Author’s Note: This essay was written in September 2024, 18 months after the passing of my husband Clark. It is the second essay in a collection of stories about moving forward after losing my spouse.
I saw the little piggy bank sitting on the shelf when I was dusting last Saturday. Out of curiosity, I opened it, the first time since my husband Clark’s death 605 days ago. The ‘kitty,’ literally and figuratively, is a piggy bank in the shape of a cat. I collected cat memorabilia over the years as an homage to our company name, OrangeBoy, and purchased this little brown leather- bound bank on one of many business trips, which one I cannot remember.
The kitty contained 33 coins—2 quarters, 8 dimes and 23 pennies, every coin I have found since Clark’s death. The total equaled $1.53, and it might as well be a million dollars. These coins are worth more to me than all the money in my investment account, my artwork, my home, and my furnishings. It is not the value of the coins, but what they represent.
See, as a recent widow, you look for signs. Anything to feel less alone, some indication your deceased husband’s presence is there. In those early days and weeks, you search for anything, feeling so lost and afraid. Many widows talk about feeling their person’s presence in the room, or hearing his voice in their dreams, and even seeing visions. I didn’t experience any of this until that fateful spring day.
It was a few weeks after Clark’s passing after his seven-month cancer ordeal. It was time to start living my new life, so on a whim, I signed up for a meetup at the symphony—the first time I had attended something like that by myself. I was proud of myself for doing it and I enjoyed getting ready. I wore a pretty dress, black pumps, and black evening clutch covered in sequins and beads. I took care in applying my makeup and gave myself a manicure earlier that day. I felt good.
But now that the time had come to walk to the theater, I was scared and did not want to go. I kept asking myself why I had signed up, and maybe I should just stay home. I sat on the bed thinking about what to do, and I realized I could not move forward with my life sitting alone in my house.
So, I walked out the front door and down the street, moving slowly and cautiously toward the theater. And then I saw it, right there on the sidewalk. A grungy, dented penny. My emotions swelled as I bent down to pick it up, and tears trickled down my face. I knew at that moment it was a sign from Clark, my husband of 29 years and business partner for 26. He was present in that penny, cheering me on.
I truly felt him. My mood quickly shifted from sadness to elation. It was going to be okay. I was going to be okay. My step got livelier, and I walked into the theater with confidence. It turned out to be a beautiful evening, and I was so glad I went.
Over the next few months, I kept up with projects that had been important to us, like tending our urban garden. I spent Memorial Day weekend putting in sidewalk edging, weeding, and planting. I also slowly started working again. It was painful reconnecting with team members, visiting clients, and resuming projects. As the surviving owner of our business, I could not let the company suffer, but my heart really wasn’t in it. I was fortunate to have a great team who stepped up, so I could devote enough time toward the business while also taking time for myself to figure out how to move forward with my life.
I stumbled awkwardly through this confusing and scary time, marking his passing on the 10th of every month that first year, his death anniversary date, and managing a year of ‘firsts,’ celebrating birthdays, holidays and other milestones without him. Everyone told me how strong I was, which kind of pissed me off. I expressed my grief privately, rarely getting through a day without bursting into tears. Yet, when people didn’t witness me falling apart, they just assumed I was moving on. Unless you become a member of this club no one wants to belong, you truly cannot understand how it feels. You end up managing other people’s emotions because you don’t want them to feel bad, and learn to give people grace when they say something stupid or nothing at all because they don’t know what to say.
Every so often, usually when I was having a bad day and missing him terribly, I would find a penny beside my car, at a restaurant we had frequented, or at the airport, which sometimes felt like a second home over the last ten years. Every time, I felt like Clark was present, encouraging me to keep going.
The practice of treasuring found coins did not start after his death. In fact, we did it for most of our married life, particularly after we started our business. We were elated when we found a penny, especially in the early years when we were so broke. Those are the days I remember fondly–being so busy you wondered how the work would ever get done, a word of appreciation from a client for a presentation we stayed up all night to prepare, or getting our first real office after years of running the business from our basement, long before working from home was cool. As the business grew, more people joined the team, but the risks and burdens still fell to us as owners. It felt like it was the two of us against the world, and often it was.
When we found pennies and other coins, and sometimes the rare dollar bill, or a twenty, we put it in a special wooden box we picked up at an antique store we frequented, a favorite Saturday morning ritual. We always said if we ever think we are too good or too successful to pick up a penny off the ground, shame on us. Even after the business grew and the financial situation was not as dire, we still got giddy when we found a penny. We often traveled independently of one another, and it was a special treat to share in a text or phone call, “I found a penny!”
People always said we made a good team. And we did. It almost did not happen, as Clark never wanted to marry. He didn’t believe in it, or so he said. It took five years of dating and an ultimatum for him to propose. We built a life together, developing our love for entertaining, collecting art and mid-century furniture, and starting a business. His views on marriage changed, and he soon realized how lucky we were to have each other. People often asked how we could work together and stay married, but it worked for us. We were two people who still had our own thoughts and ideas, but we made each other better. He was the visionary and I was the one who executed all his crazy ideas. We each had our fair share of insecurities, and both of us experienced the ‘middle child’ syndrome, but together we were unstoppable.
In the years leading up to his death, the business was thriving, and for all intents and purposes, we had made it. Years of sacrifice had paid off. That is the power of what we could do together, but the worry never left. Some things got easier, and some got harder. He always said, ‘the more you risk, the more you have to risk.’ All the stress took its toll. I was ready to talk seriously about our exit strategy, but he kept kicking the can down the road. “Five more years,” he would plead.
I never wanted to run the business without him. We were a team. And so, one year after his death, I was fortunate to sell my shares to two wonderful and passionate people who were already involved in the business. The company’s legacy continues with the next generation of leaders, and I could not be more proud. I am now untethered, releasing me from the business obligations of the company Clark and I started 27 years ago.
If it were not for the thoughts and feelings captured in the journal I started a few weeks after he died, I would have forgotten much from that first year. At the time, it seemed like I knew what I was doing. As I look back now, I realize I was like an infant discovering a new world for the first time. I sold our 120-year-old downtown carriage house in Columbus and bought a nearly new townhouse in a Columbus suburb. I tried on different volunteer hats, joined a writing meetup, spent time with close friends and family members, and started traveling again.
I devoured everything I could about widowhood–books, podcasts, videos, and blogs. I wanted to know how others coped, what experiences I shared with them, and words of hope. I was desperate to know what to expect in the first month, the first year, and beyond. I read Joan Didion’s obligatory book about widowhood, The Year of Magical Thinking. It was indeed magical for me. Her book captured many emotions I was feeling at the time. This paragraph captured my feelings better than if I had written it myself.
We were incapable of imagining the reality of life without the other. This will not be a story in which the death of the husband or wife becomes what amounts to the credit sequence for a new life, a catalyst for the discovery that “you can love more than one person.” Of course you can, but marriage is something different. Marriage is memory, marriage is time.
Life has become a daily experiment to find out who I am, or rather, who I want to be. The key identifiers, career woman, business owner, wife, half of a power couple, are gone. Daughter is gone too, as both parents are deceased. That left sister, aunt and friend. I clung to these remaining characteristics while I figured out which ones to add.
My creative side blossomed. Soon, artist, singer and writer were added to the attributes list. My mixed-media art pieces are therapeutic. Participation in a 500-member community choir is a blessing, many songs taking on deep meaning as I find myself more vulnerable now. And writing. It started out journaling, but now it is blossoming into something that allows me self- expression and connection to my world and gives me purpose.
I remind myself that I am a work in progress and will continue to change and grow in the coming years. I try to live a life that is big enough to carry the pain of losing Clark, something I read in one memoir about loss. But it comes at a price. It is getting harder to remember my husband– what he sounded like, his touch, his laughter.
Some clichés bear truth, and I have found that time is indeed healing. I focus on things that are important to me—creative outlets, health and wellbeing, and friend and family relationships. I still find coins on walks, at the grocery store, and out with friends. In fact, I found a dime yesterday and a penny and nickel today. I stick them in my pocket and transfer them to the kitty when I get home. It always makes me feel Clark’s presence, to have a private moment where I can remember him, love him, and honor our life together. He continues to remind me his energy is out there in the universe, and those pennies are heaven sent.