They were tucked in the long, wide desk drawer bound together by a thick elastic band. Leafing through the packet, I discovered 11 years of desktop calendars. Scanning each one, I quickly noticed a single dark letter X printed in every January 31 box. Not too surprising, as it was the date of my mother’s death in 1984. Dad had been devoted to Mom, but why he had saved 11 years of calendars was a mystery.

It was cold and blustery that first week of February, 1996. I was sitting at my father’s desk organizing a to-do list. After three days in the hospital intensive care unit, on January 31 Dad had passed away. Glancing down at the current year’s calendar right in front of me I was a little bit shocked and a lot curious. Adding to the calendar puzzle, on January 31, 1996, there were two dark XXs inked in the box.

My father had been a pretty healthy guy. A blood pressure pill and a baby aspirin were his only meds. He had experienced two mini strokes, but was none the worse for wear. On Friday, January 26 I made my regular call to check in with him. We’d set up a weekly Friday morning call routine months earlier when I moved some distance away. He was always there when I phoned. I was a bit concerned on the 26th when there was no answer, but thought he’d likely driven someone to an appointment. Dad was the neighborhood chauffeur.

After several unsuccessful attempts throughout the morning, I called one of his buddies. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I saw him walking to the store for his newspaper earlier today.” My family encouraged me to relax, but with no response by noon I called Dad’s building manager. “Please go into his apartment,” I begged. “Something is wrong.”

It wasn’t long before I heard back. “I found him unconscious on the floor by his desk. I called the aid car,” was the manager’s frightened message. I headed home.

The doctor was gentle. “Your father has had a major stroke. He’s stable for now. I think we should remove the ventilator and see how he does on his own.” And he did quite well on his own, looking amazingly peaceful as I encouraged him to rally. When Wednesday, January 31 rolled around, Dad, while unable to communicate, seemed even more tranquil, almost happy. I left feeling that my father and a higher power were in charge. A short time later the doctor called with the news. He assured me it had been a quiet passing. I went out for a run in the cold air, absorbing the loss of a dear man.

But what about the calendar collection? Most interesting, what about the two Xs on his date of death, twelve years to the day after Mother’s? I wanted to know the meaning. Dad surely didn’t plan to have a stroke, but did he have telling symptoms beforehand? Did he have some sort of premonition? Did he make a powerful mental decision? How did he know? Or was he even the one who had added that second X?

Well, it’s January 2024. I’m in my writing studio sitting at my father’s old desk. Opening the top drawer, I gently slide out the 1996 calendar, the only one I kept. I run my fingers over the XXs, wanting to talk to Dad, wanting answers. What was his motivation? What were his thoughts?

I’ll never know the meaning behind my father’s twelfth calendar, but all these years later looking at those XXs I can’t help wondering about the mystery he left behind. I’m a writer. I need a beginning, a middle, and an end to a story. Where’s my grand finale?

Seems I’ve penned a tale here that has no end, but my imagination continues to run wild. I’ve conjured up numerous possibilities for that odd second X. A while back I wrote a novel about an unusual bracelet with no history that my mother left behind. Maybe I’ll have to write another book.

Good aging spirits on this 31st day of January 2024.

Carole Marshall is a former columnist and feature writer for a national magazine. She’s had stories published in “Chicken Soup for the Soul” books and has written two novels and one fitness book. She is Mom, Grandma, and Great-Grandma to some spectacular kiddos.