Signs are everywhere, if only we pay attention. Too fixated on where we are going and knocking out miles-long to-do lists, we often miss them. But, in my case, sometimes the universe gives me a little auditory nudge — a snap of its fingers, so to speak — before showing me the sign I need. Four years ago, it was a song.

I am driving south on Church Street with my teenage daughter, Emmy, riding shotgun on a clear, crisp day. We’re on our way home from Sunset Market Gardens, where I’ve loaded up on veggies, greens and eggs for the week. One of the perks to running errands with Mom, especially early morning weekend ones? Control of the music. Her playlist of every song ever released by Taylor Swift shuffles through the car speakers. When “Marjorie” comes on, Emmy casts me a sideways glance and offers a gentle smile, knowing that when I hear it, I think of Sarah, my best friend and former business partner who’s just passed away.

If I didn’t know better

I’d think you were still around

What died didn’t stay dead

What died didn’t stay dead

You’re alive, you’re alive in my head

Just then, in an all-but-blue sky punctuated by a cloud or two, a rainbow appears. No sign of rain anywhere, yet there it is in its vivid ribbons of color. Emmy and I both gasp.

Two years later, I’ve just ended an exhausting month. My husband, Chris, has traveled three out of four weeks, while my kindergartener, Wilder, and I have both been sick. There’s only so much rage-vacuuming my house can take. Of course, with three kids and two dogs, the house isn’t actually clean, but the loud hum of the vacuum drowns out the noise nicely. I’ve heard it said that being an adult is a constant loop of saying “I just have to get through this week.” By that measure, I should be very grown up by now, though the jury’s still out.

Thanks to antibiotics, Wilder heads back to school and I’ve got a day to catch up on writing. Settled in at my favorite writing desk, the kitchen table, I tap away at my keyboard while a cool breeze blows through the open windows. Happy with my progress, I gift myself a little brain-break and mindlessly open up Facebook. A “memory” reminds me that today is the anniversary of Sarahs’s death. Immediately, a wash of shame spreads from my cheeks all the way to my toes. How could I have forgotten?

My eyes dart upward, to a place where I imagine Sarah can hear me. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

Not a moment later, before I even have time to pause to await a reply, I hear the familiar jingle of a dog’s collar. My own two pups are safely curled up on our leather sofa, but I peer onto our lawn and spy a dog I don’t recognize moseying around, no owner in sight.

Ugh, I don’t have time for this right now, I think. But I consider how I’d feel if my own dog was out there loose. Plus, I am a bit of a softie. In fact, when I became pregnant with our first child 19 years ago, Chris, worried I might put myself and the baby in danger, had to tell me to stop bringing home strays. But this shaggy, golden-amber dog looks innocent enough.

I step off my porch. “Hi, puppy.”

She saunters over slowly, tongue lagging out the side of her mouth, as I reach down to scratch behind her ears and catch a glimpse of the purple bone-shaped tag engraved with her name.

“Brownie,” I say, “aren’t you a sweet girl?” She rolls gently onto her back, inviting a belly rub.

I locate the tag with the owner’s number, and dial. The phone begins to ring and just before the owner answers, I catch the name on the tag so I know how to address her: Sarah.

I can’t believe it. And yet I can.

Sarah, the dog owner, and Brownie reunite with licks and snuggles on my front lawn as I look to the sky, where I imagine my friend smiling down at me.

It’s been four years since her death. Like waves of grief, the signs don’t stop coming, but have lessened, more time passing between each. And now, when I notice them, I don’t cry anymore. I smile, grateful in the knowledge that Sarah is still around.