We used to always leave notes for each other. Reminders. Encouragement. Or simply love. I knew her hand writing. She knew mine. We didn’t have cell phones or pagers. When apart, my mom and I, we had paper and a pen. And we were connected.

I was coming home late on the team bus. I can’t honestly say how the parents knew when the game was over. When we would arrive back at our own school, but they did. And my mom was always there. A light blue Chevy Malibu mini station wagon, with the engine running. The bus pulled into the parking lot. I looked around for the familiar blue smoke. Nothing. Probably just late. I waited. One by one, the other girls headed home. As they cleared away from the double doors, I saw it. A little yellow sticky note. “Call Spoden’s (our neighbor’s). You’ll be ok.” In my mom’s handwriting. I used my emergency quarter and called from the pay phone. Andria picked me up.

It’s hard to imagine now. How we got by with only notes to save us. Now we travel with keys and phones and pads. But we made it. I suppose because we were connected in the way it mattered most.

Yesterday in the community workout room, I saw it. The most hopeful note I had seen in a long time. It was taped to one of the treadmills. “Temporarily out of order.” The word temporarily added so much hope. Promise. Everything would be ok.

People search for signs all the time. Maybe it’s silly, but I need to believe in them. I always have. And so yesterday I saw the sign from my mother. Yes, things feel strange, out of order, but we will always be connected. I will be ok. We all will be ok.