Looking for a Sign

My mother had red hair when she was young. Later on in life, she let her hair go gray. But sometimes, my father would still call her "Red" instead of her name. I believe he was quite taken with the fact that he had captured the heart of a beautiful redheaded woman.

Just after they celebrated their sixty-second anniversary, my mother died. However, my father continues to believe she is watching out for him.

Actually, I think so, too.

On Monday, my father suffered a stroke, which affected his right side. I sat beside him in the ER all day while he underwent numerous tests.

Directly opposite him, in a direct line of sight, a woman with red hair waited on a gurney for treatment. She was probably in her late fifties. She calmly read a book while the hustle and bustle of a very crowded ER went on about her.

Dad stared at her for a while. "Is that a sign?" he asked.

I knew exactly what he meant, but I shrugged it off.

A little while later, he asked, "Is her hair color real?"

I smiled at that question, but again I shrugged. However, I went searching for the nurse a little while later and passed right by the woman on the gurney. The roots of her hair were not red.

I returned to my father and whispered in his ear. "Her hair is not really red. She uses hair color."

He nodded and smiled. Nevertheless, he still believes it was a sign.

Maybe it was. Just a little bit of hope in the ER is good medicine.