Signs.

On Sunday I filled up my car with gas.  The total came to $28.75. 

I drove directly from the Hess station to my nearby grocery store.  The total?  $28.75.

Last night on the T, coming home from work, I sat in a corner seat on the train, my nose buried in John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath.  At one point I glanced up, merely to take note of which T stop we were currently at.  Directly in front of me stood a man reading John Steinbeck's The Winter of Our Discontent.  I studied him and the book for a moment, marveling a bit over the odds that would place the two of us together on this specific train during rush hour, both of us reading classics written by a long deceased author. 

While I sat there staring at his book, my mind began to wander.  I was thinking about the title of Steinbeck's last novel, the one that comes from a line by Shakespeare.  And then I started to think about how it just wouldn't work quite as well if he'd written "The Summer of our Discontent" instead.  Something about it didn't have quite the same ring as what Ol' Shakespeare chose.

As is my usual habit in the mornings while getting ready for work, I had NPR on in my bedroom today.  I stood in front of the mirror, putting in my earrings, sort of only half-listening, until I heard Renee Montagne announce: "It's been a Summer of Discontent in Japan..." 

I believe the universe is trying to tell me something.  I'm just not sure what quite yet.