But they take a piece away from us as well. Their passing leaves one less person in the world who remembers our personal times and spaces, who witnessed our struggles and celebrated our victories. We lose stories–it’s hard to reminisce when our partner in crime isn’t physically present to chime in with their perspective of the narrative. Inside jokes fall flat; the one who “gets it” isn’t there to laugh, and nobody else knows what we’re talking about. We’re left to safeguard precious memories on our own.

The future is impacted, too. It doesn’t look like we thought it would. We lose the ability to hash out worries and hopes with a person who was always part of the scenario. We can no longer bounce ideas and solutions off someone whose insight we valued. A main character available to us in every vision of our future … isn’t.

The person we lose takes not only a part of our shared experiences with them, but a reflection of who we were in their eyes. Nobody else saw or will see us in quite the same way. Nobody will infuse us with the same energy or recognize the same potential in us.

We’re often reminded that our loved ones will always be with us and that we will see them again. Sure, but this isn’t that essay. This is the pissed-off, bewildered essay. What we lose is irreplaceable, and attempts to soften the loss sometimes feel pat.

I do know one thing: our person is gone, but for some reason, we’re still here. We still have the opportunity to radiate the essence of who they were. Did they bring joy? Clarity? Were they generous with their emotions, appreciative of the gifts others brought to a situation? We can still fill the void in both our hearts and the world with energy sourced from this. Emanating positive power won’t bring our person back, but it will reflect the best of not only who they were, but who they believed we could be …

…which may be the reason we loved each other in the first place.

She was part of a long tradition. The American Spiritualist movement dates back to 1848, when the Fox sisters of upstate New York convinced their followers that mysterious raps heard in answer to posed questions were responses from unseen spirits. Of course, people throughout history have longed for glimpses of the afterlife, if only to learn what awaits beyond death. But with the evangelical Second Great Awakening challenging traditional Calvinist beliefs, the mid-nineteenth century offered particularly fertile ground for an emotional religious revival. It spawned a tidal wave of seances, where people gathered to receive messages from the spirit world delivered through mediums who claimed to be in touch with the dead.

Anyone could make money as a medium, and anyone did. Seances and readings proliferated as newly minted mediums contacted the spirit world via spirit guides (discarnate entities relied upon for spiritual guidance) or the deceased themselves. But alongside those eager to believe sat skeptics just as eager to uncover fraud. Close observation revealed levitating objects suspended by string, and tables tilted by nothing more “spirited” than the medium’s knee. Supernatural “manifestations” turned out to be dolls, while plaster casts served as “materialized” ghostly hands. Yet even after the Fox sisters admitted in 1888 that their spirit rapping had been the result of cracking toe joints, people continued to believe. By the turn of the twentieth century, Spiritualism had more than eight million followers in the United States and Europe. And despite the movement’s glaring lack of credibility, there was more to come.

As the 1920s dawned, the world struggled to recover from the one-two punch of the Great War and the 1918 influenza pandemic. Nearly 120,000 Americans died in World War I. The flu surpassed that figure, sweeping across the landscape in 1918-1919 and taking over 500,000 American souls with it. Almost everyone lost someone dear to them, taken with little warning. Spiritualism experienced a new surge of popularity as, fueled by sorrow and desperation, people flocked to seance tables in search of closure.

As before, fraudulent practices flourished. Mediums continued to glean information about the deceased from the words and descriptions of those trying to contact them. There was ectoplasm made of butter, muslin, and even sheep’s lung. Materialized spirits (including Woodrow Wilson and King Ferdinand of Bulgaria) turned out to be cut-outs clipped from magazines. Spirit photography, where hazy images of the beloved deceased floated about a living subject, was revealed to be nothing more than double exposure. But people came anyway, searching for answers and comfort that traditional religion and modern science couldn’t provide.

Mrs. B’s “circles of enlightenment” were held at her home, in a room set aside as a chapel. A little altar with a cross atop it sat on one side of the room; Mrs. B identified as a devout Christian. Instead of the expected round table, there was a circle of chairs. Spirit pictures–pastel portraits of Mrs. B’s spirit guides–lined the walls. Quartz crystals and religious artifacts were set on side tables. The air felt dense, like walking to one’s seat involved passing through several sets of velvet curtains.

Six of us settled into our chairs. Mrs. B reached for the light switch. As total darkness settled around us, she asked if anybody in the room saw “anyone.” Nobody did. She herself saw points of light, which she identified as spirits. She received information from several spirit guides who had been with her for decades. Frequently she spoke in one-size-fits-all generalities that invited personalized interpretation. Some of her pronouncements seemed like obvious follow-up statements to a participant’s question. Nothing “appeared,” thank heavens; no ectoplasm, thumps, or unusual noises announced otherworldly guests.

I started wondering if anyone else in the room noticed that, except for changes in hairstyle and clothing, all the spirit pictures on the wall looked the same. Did anyone really believe that Mrs. B’s beautiful rose quartz necklace had been materialized as a gift from a spirit guide?

Mrs. B thoroughly believed in her own ability to communicate with spirits and didn’t care whether other people did or not. Neither did the couple comforted by words from their deceased teenage son. Nor did the woman who’d come to ask her late husband for a little guidance about where he’d left his will. Mrs. B listened to a voice none of us could hear and repeated what she heard. I learned later that, based on the information, the woman did indeed locate the will.

Perhaps this is the fundamental reason why belief in Spiritualism continues. For each uncovered act of fraud, there are stories that can’t be explained in logical terms.

Our world moves forward in a steady flow of scientific and medical advances. Technology keeps us in nearly constant contact with each other, no matter where we are. But despite these changes, people today experience the same longing and emptiness as did those so willing to believe the Fox sisters back in 1848.

For those who yearn for something “more,” Spiritualism offers hope.

When I was a kid, I hated even the smell of coffee. The worst part of shopping at A&P with my dad was lining up to pay, because there was a coffee grinder at the end of each check-out line. Most shoppers considered it a perk (sorry) to bring home freshly ground beans. I just wanted to hold my nose and bolt for the door as quickly as possible.

My coffee aversion lasted until sometime during college, when I started drinking instant with sugar and fake creamer. I’m not sure this even counts as real coffee. Thankfully, that phase was over in a hot minute, and I’ve been making up for lost time ever since. I’m not exactly an addict, but I can see it from here.

I used to attribute the change to taste buds, because I totally believed the line that taste buds change every seven years. It turns out this isn’t true. We’re born with approximately ten thousand taste buds which are replaced every two weeks or so — approximately 10% of the cells inside them actually turn over each day. Over time, the number of taste buds we have starts to decrease. This means that many of the flavors that seem too strong when we’re kids become easier to tolerate as we age, leading to an acceptance of more sophisticated flavors as we reach our twenties.

This supports my college-era coffee-awakening but does not explain how I drank the sweet California swill that got passed off as Chablis in the late 1970s. Science says my taste buds were old enough to know better.

Of course, liking certain foods/drink is attached to more than science. My love for coffee dovetailed with the new experiences and camaraderie that came after I left home and began to navigate the world on my own. Even a poor student could afford the bottomless pot of fresh coffee that appeared magically on the table through late-night exam cram sessions at HoJo’s. The boring survival job where staying awake was hard even if sleep happened the night before was fun when accompanied by coffee and co-workers who quickly became friends. Long conversations with new acquaintances ran deeper when bolstered by caffeine.

This is the subtext I pass on to my characters when they’re doing that drinking-making-buying thing. Coffee in my books is more than a prop. It helps set a mood, provides insight into a character’s state of mind and comfort level. Even non-coffee-drinkers recognize the social significance of coffee-fueled gatherings in our culture (I’m looking at you, Central Perk). When my characters share a cup of coffee, they’re usually lowering their defenses and letting someone in.

And if coffee doesn’t do the trick, there’s always wine.

Why? What normal person sets themselves up for rejection over and over again? I’m a realist, after all; there’s no part of me that expects this dynamic to ever change. Still, I keep coming back for more.

I’m not the sort of writer who faithfully sets aside a few hours every morning to write, whether or not I have anything to say. That works for many authors, and I applaud them. It’s discipline, and ideas often flow if given the time and space. For me, however, that method produces only dry words that feel inauthentic. No matter how hard I try, just wanting to create isn’t enough. I can’t write unless I connect to a story that wants to be told. But once I do, some of the characters (let’s call them “the perps”) will not let go.

Every author has beloved manuscripts that never made it to book form. I have four. Two are early efforts that rarely rise above wince-worthy. Another is a manuscript that won’t be relevant without a major overhaul. These three are easily put aside – for now, they’re content to remain as is and have nothing to share. But the fourth manuscript … these characters will not shut up. They will not let me move on until I’ve exhausted every possible avenue. They’re chomping at the bit to burst into the world, and no matter how stupid it feels to keep flogging the same old story, they won’t let me tuck them away in a drawer until I’ve edited to a high polish and been rejected by (apparently) every single publishing house on the planet.

These characters are a lot like the ones in my three published works. Those characters pitched fits, too. They pushed and pushed until finally, years (and years) later, they got their way and appeared in print.

We could call me tenacious. We could also call me foolish. Or, we could just say that I’m curious to see what happens next, why these particular characters think they deserve to be “born.” My ego can stick it out, because here’s another thing: at the end of their journeys, each of my novels found readers who loved sharing their stories. That’s what makes the slog worthwhile.

Of course, I Googled “finding dimes.” It turns out it’s a thing, and there are all sorts of possible meanings connected to it. Choose whichever apply: departed loved ones want you to know that they are looking out for you; you are on the right track; new beginnings are imminent. I learned that because the number 10 is symbolic of infinity, finding dimes can be interpreted as events coming full circle. This means dimes can represent unity or completion of a task. One cranky website suggested that finding a dime can mean “heads-up” (yes, I see what you did there, Cranky Website). This sounded like a warning, and since I’m not into anything that makes me more afraid in this world than I already am, I dismissed it.

So the dimes had my attention. But what good was that if I had no idea what I was supposed to know? After all, my brain is filled with lots of questions I could use help deciphering. I’m never at a loss for uncertainties, and there are always issues that beg for clarification.

Signs and messages are effective only if the receiver knows what they’re supposed to mean.

Then a curious thing happened. This past weekend, while my conscious mind was occupied, a random thought whizzed through my brain. It was only one sentence, and it wasn’t connected to anything I’d been pondering at all. Still, it was clear that this idea–the one that raised more questions than answers–was the thing I needed to hear. There was power and serenity in the words, an invitation to explore further … and having received the thought, I knew there wouldn’t be any more dimes.

That’s it. No answers. No premonitions. None needed.

I don’t know if I would have been open to this thought if the dimes hadn’t piqued my curiosity. I have to grudgingly admit that I may have misinterpreted the “heads-up” concept. Maybe the dimes aren’t a scary premonition after all. Maybe they’re simply a nudge for us to listen beyond and beneath the chaos of the world.

The dimes are gone. I haven’t found a single one since that last calling card on the coffee table. I wouldn’t mind if they showed up again, although even after two experiences, it would still take some time before I caught on to the pattern.

Clearly, I need all the reminders I can get.