As always, at the back of my mind, I was musing about what the future held for me as a writer and my two middle-grade novels still waiting for a home. I'd started to ask The Universe in earnest for a sign as to whether I should just let this dream go. The question popped into my head again just as I turned my head and saw a large hour glass on a shelf.
The sand had run out.
Since returning home, I've chosen to "reinterpret" that sign. I don't think my dream of being a published writer is dead, or past it's appointed hour, but I do think the end of something is around the corner. A part of life has run its full course. There is an ending in my future. But, like all endings, this will open the door to a new beginning.
After all, when an hour glass runs out, you turn it over.