I got a text from The Pony at 10:37 on Sunday night:
"Ghost activities followed me, apparently! Razor just fell, over in the shower."
"Yikes! Calm here for a while now."
"It was up on the flat shelf in the corner since this morning! No movement! Now I'm in the bath and it just suddenly fell!"
"Tuesday will be Grandma's birthday. Coincidentally."
Not that I think knocking a razor off a shower shelf is a sign from my mom. That's not her style. She was never a prankster.
My dad, however...
The Pony never knew his grandpa. He was only two months old when my dad died. I wasn't working that year, and took The Pony out to their house every day. Dad definitely knew The Pony. He used to sit with his knees up in his recliner, Baby Pony laid on them, talking away. He made the most of those two months.
When The Pony was a toddler, just graduated from crib to plastic car bed, I was sometimes astounded to find him tucked in JUST RIGHT when I'd check on him through the night. Covered up to his chin, arms under the blanket, not a wrinkle. The Pony would tell stories of seeing his grandpa in his room at night, "making sure everything is okay."
Like I said, The Pony would have no memories of his grandpa, although there were pictures on the wall outside his room.
Something to think about.