About those objects that move

In my last post, I said she hadn't explained how she moves objects. I thought maybe I'd describe what I'm talking about. There may be some other explanation for the things that I believe she's moved, but I haven't found any.

The New York Times dated June 15, which appeared on July 20 in the planting strip where we always put out the trash, was the first one. I do not think that she physically put the paper there, but I have no idea how she manipulated its presence.

A couple of months ago, while I was making dinner and listening to an NPR story about Hurricane Irene approaching the Northeast, the "evacuation priorities" list fluttered from the refrigerator to the floor. Several years ago, when folks in central Washington were being evacuated on short notice due to flooding, Sandy and I sat down and noted what our priorities would be if we were ever told to get out quickly. It's just a short list of what to grab (cats, wallets, passports, medications, that sort of thing). We'd stuck it to the fridge and it had stayed there for years, unbothered by strong gusts of wind or the refrigerator door opening or shutting or Nada jumping to the top of the cabinets. But while I was listening to a broadcast about people evacuating ahead of the hurricane in New York, the evacuation priorities list fluttered to the floor. I said, "No, honey, we don't need to evacuate. It's the East coast that needs to worry." But I realized a couple of days later, when I hadn't felt her presence for a while, that she hadn't been telling me to get out; she'd been telling me that she had to go check on her friends.

Other things have fallen or somehow moved, apparently on their own. The most recent was just a few minutes ago. I made stew today, the first time since Sandy died. Stew-making was her domain, and I've been nervous about it. I finally used my memory of Sandy's process and my own common sense to come up with something halfway decent and very satisfying. I'd scooped up a bowlful to eat with hot-from-the-oven cornbread (that part was easy; it was always my job to make the cornbread), and I'd left the large pot of stew on the stove to cook a little longer. While I was eating, listening to the radio, I heard a loud thunk. I yelled at the cat and got up to see what Nada had gotten into. Sandy's computer backpack had fallen from its hook onto the floor just outside the kitchen door. Nada was nowhere in sight - but I noticed then that the stew was burning. I got that taken care of, and then realized that both cats were asleep on the sofa, and had been when the backpack fell. That backpack had been hanging just fine on its hook for weeks, since I last used it. And if it hadn't fallen, I'd not have thought to check on the stew. And keeping an eye on the stew was Sandy's job. Others may see the equation differently, but when I do the math, it's pretty clear that Sandy is still on duty.