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Someone hums in the proofing room

I bake from 10pm to 6am. Henri trained me fourteen years ago, when I could barely shape a baguette. He hummed while he worked, always the same tune, some old chanson he never told me the name of. Flat on the high notes. He'd tap each loaf twice before it went in the oven, like knocking on a door. He died in August. I took over his shift because nobody else wanted it. Three weeks ago, around 3:40, I was alone in the back. Mixer off, ovens heating, that deep quiet you only get at that hour. And from the proofing room I heard humming. His tune. Flat on the high notes. I'm a seeker, not a believer in much yet. I checked the radio (unplugged). I checked the alley door (locked). I checked my own mouth, honestly, because I've caught myself humming it before. Not me. I stood in the doorway and said, 'Bonsoir, Henri.' The humming stopped. The rack of loaves in there had risen perfectly, better than any batch I've managed since he left. I tapped each one twice before it went in the oven. I've done it every night since. Whatever that was, I'm choosing to take it as a thank-you for keeping the ovens warm.

My grandpa died two years ago today. My family isn't religious and we've never really marked it. Tonight I put his harmonica on the windowsill, lit a candle (in a jar, on a plate, I read the safety threads here), and just told him about my year, out loud. It felt silly for about thirty seconds and then it didn't. I don't know what I believe. I'm not sure I need to yet. I just wanted to tell someone it happened.

Henri and the butter

Lucid again last night, which for me means about 11am. Night-shift baker problems. The trigger was the clock in the bakery. It's a big ugly Hobart clock over the proofing cabinets, and in the dream it had no hands, just a smooth white face. I've done reality checks for so many years that my body knew before I did: no hands, no time, you're dreaming. Everything went sharp at the edges, the way it does. And Henri was there at the bench. He died in August, and I've dreamed of him a few times since, but never like this, never with the light this clear. Sleeves rolled the way he always wore them, one higher than the other. He was laminating croissant dough. I didn't ask him anything big. I'd planned to, I keep a list for exactly this, but when it came to it I just stood beside him and watched his hands. He tapped the dough and said, in that flat Lyonnais way, 'You're rushing the butter. Cold butter, warm heart, not the other way round.' Then he laughed at his own joke, which he also always did. I woke up with the smell of flour in the room, which I know is probably just my hair. I made the croissants slower tonight. Waited an extra ten minutes between folds. Best batch I've turned out in months. Take that however you like. It's going in the journal as a visit.

The customer who knew the stone

A woman came into the shop yesterday holding up a photo on her phone: her late mother's pendant, lost in a move years ago. A big flash of blue labradorite in a hammered silver bezel. She'd been to every shop between here and Santa Fe looking for something similar. I said I was sorry, I didn't think I had anything like it. Then I remembered a box from an estate sale I hadn't even sorted yet. Third thing I pulled out: a labradorite pendant in a hammered silver bezel. Not the same one. She checked the back for her mother's initials and they weren't there. But it was close enough that she sat down on my little stool and cried, and I sat on the floor next to her. I gave it to her. Some stones aren't for sale.

Evensong tonight, and the Nunc Dimittis: 'Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.' I've sung it a hundred times. Tonight was the first time I thought of Mum while singing it and still made it to the end. Just.

Walt in the calendula

Six years this November since my husband Walt passed. He was not a witch, not even slightly. He called my herbs 'your weeds' and built me every raised bed I ever asked for anyway. Two nights ago he was in my dream, standing in the garden in his green barn coat, pointing at the calendula. Not saying anything. Just pointing, the way he used to point at a fence post he'd decided I needed to look at. So the next morning I went out in my robe and muck boots and looked. The calendula is usually finished by now up here, we've had two frosts, but there were seed heads all along the back of the bed that I'd completely missed. Those little curled crescent seeds, dozens of them, dry and ready. I sat on the edge of the bed he built and cried for a good while, and then I collected every last one. I don't know exactly how these things work. Forty years at this and I know less than I did at thirty. But I know that man always did want me to save seed instead of buying it. Come spring, every calendula in this garden will be from Walt's bed, and all five grandbabies are getting a packet.

Tía Nena and the white flower

Sunday night my tía Nena came to me in a dream. She passed in March. She was sitting behind me on the porch steps of her old house in Hialeah, braiding my hair the way she did when I was little: too tight, and with a lot of commentary. When she finished, she tucked a white flower into the braid and said, 'Don't forget me on Mondays.' I don't forget my eggun on Mondays. But I've been rushing, I'll admit it. So yesterday I took my time. Fresh water, a white rose just for her, her name said out loud and slowly. Some of what that dream means I'll take to my godmother, and that part stays in the room. The braid and the flower felt fine to share. She'd want people to know she still fixes my hair.

Small sound bath Thursday night, eight people, mostly regulars. Near the end I struck the big crystal bowl, the low F, and let it ring out like always. Except it didn't fade. It kept going, a thin thread of sound, maybe twenty seconds longer than it physically should have. My hands were in my lap. Nobody touched it. Afterwards a woman who'd come for the first time told me, very quietly, that it was her late father's birthday, and that he used to hum one low note to her when she couldn't sleep. 'Like that one,' she said. I'm not going to make claims about what happened. I just held her hands for a minute, and then we had tea.

Writing the names for All Souls

Every October our parish leaves a book at the back of the church for All Souls. You write the names of the people you've lost, and on the evening of the 2nd they're read aloud at the requiem, one by one, while a candle burns on the altar. Today I wrote my mother's name for the fifth year. My handwriting has got steadier each time. This year I added my old choir director, who taught me to breathe from the belly and never, ever to go flat on a descant. There's something about seeing her name on a page with a hundred others, in a hundred different hands. Grief is so private, and then for one evening it isn't.

The red bird on my old route

Thirty-one years I carried mail, the same route for the last nineteen. My Loretta packed my lunch every one of those days, and there was always a little note in the bag. Mostly scripture. Sometimes just 'Don't forget the Hendersons' dog bites.' She passed in March. I retired in June because I couldn't stand opening that lunch bag. Now, folks around here say when a cardinal comes close, it's somebody you love paying a visit. I always nodded at that the way you nod at your aunties. Polite. Last week I drove the old route, just to see it. Stopped by the Hendersons' place (the dog is gone too, God rest him). Got out to stretch my legs, and a male cardinal landed on the mailbox. Not the fence, not the dogwood. The mailbox. Looked right at me and tilted his head the way Loretta did when she was about to tell me I needed a haircut. I stood there so long Mrs. Henderson came out to see if I was alright. I told her yes ma'am, I was just getting my mail. I'd put a dime in my shoe that morning like my uncle taught me, and said Psalm 23 like I do every day. But I'll tell you, I said it a little louder on the drive home. I don't know all the whys of this world. I know who packed my lunch for thirty-one years. And I know she never could stand me being sad for long.

Brother Columba's stall

Vigils is at 4:15am. This time of year it's fully dark, and the abbey church is lit only enough to read the psalms. Brother Columba died in September, aged ninety-one. He had the same stall in the choir for sixty-two years: back row, left side, under the window with the cracked pane. He always arrived first, sat with his eyes closed, and always, always cleared his throat right before 'O Lord, open my lips.' Nobody has taken his stall. It isn't a rule. We just haven't. Last Tuesday I was the first one in. I sat in my place, novices' row, front. The church was completely silent. And then, from the back left, under the window with the cracked pane, someone cleared their throat. I didn't turn around. I don't fully know why. Maybe because turning around would have meant deciding what it was. The bell rang, the others came in, Father Prior intoned the opening versicle, and we sang the Invitatory as usual. Afterwards I told our novice master. He is not a man given to drama. He listened, nodded, and said, 'Columba never missed Vigils in sixty years. I don't suppose he wants to start now.' Then he sent me to help with the bread. I'm not writing this to claim a miracle. I'm writing it because the communion of saints, which I profess every Sunday, felt very close that morning. Close enough to clear its throat.