tomkatzid
02-15-2003, 12:01 PM
tears, tears, sniffle, sniffle:)
Thinking of You
By Alicia von Stamwitz
Sophie's face faded into the gray winter light of the
sitting room. She dozed in the armchair that Joe had
bought for her on their fortieth anniversary. The room was
warm and quiet. Outside it was snowing lightly.
At a quarter past one the mailman turned the corner
onto Allen Street. He was behind on his route, not because
of the snow, but because it was Valentine's Day and there
was more mail than usual. He passed Sophie's house without
looking up. Twenty minutes later he climbed back into his
truck and drove off.
Sophie stirred when she heard the mail truck pull
away, then took off her glasses and wiped her mouth and
eyes with the handkerchief she always carried in her
sleeve. She pushed herself up using the arm of the chair
for support, straightened slowly and smoothed the lap of
her dark green housedress.
Her slippers made a soft, shuffling sound on the bare
floor as she walked to the kitchen. She stopped at the
sink to wash the two dishes she had left on the counter
after lunch. Then she filled a plastic cup halfway with
water and took her pills. It was one forty-five.
There was a rocker in the sitting room by the front
window. Sophie eased herself into it. In a half-hour the
children would be passing by on their way home from school.
Sophie waited, rocking and watching the snow.
The boys came first, as always, running and calling
out things Sophie could not hear. Today they were making
snowballs as they went, throwing them at one another. One
snowball missed and smacked hard into Sophie's window. She
jerked backward, and the rocker slipped off the edge of her
oval rag rug.
The girls dilly-dallied after the boys, in twos and
threes, cupping their mittened hands over their mouths and
giggling. Sophie wondered if they were telling each other
about the valentines they had received at school. One
pretty girl with long brown hair stopped and pointed to the
window where Sophie sat watching. Sophie slipped her face
behind the drapes, suddenly self-conscious.
When she looked out again, the boys and girls were
gone. It was cold by the window, but she stayed there
watching the snow cover the children's footprints.
A florist's truck turned onto Allen Street. Sophie
followed it with her eyes. It was moving slowly. Twice it
stopped and started again. Then the driver pulled up in
front of Mrs. Mason's house next door and parked.
Who would be sending Mrs. Mason flowers? Sophie
wondered. Her daughter in Wisconsin? Or her brother? No,
her brother was very ill. It was probably her daughter.
How nice of her.
Flowers made Sophie think of Joe and, for a moment,
she let the aching memory fill her. Tomorrow was the
fifteenth. Eight months since his death.
The flower man was knocking at Mrs. Mason's front
door. He carried a long white and green box and a
clipboard. No one seemed to be answering. Of course! It
was Friday ? Mrs. Mason quilted at the church on Friday
afternoons. The delivery man looked around, then started
toward Sophie's house.
Sophie shoved herself out of the rocker and stood
close to the drapes. The man knocked. Her hands trembled
as she straightened her hair. She reached her front hall
on his third knock.
"Yes?" she said, peering around a slightly opened
door.
"Good afternoon, ma'am," the man said loudly. "Would
you take a delivery for your neighbor?"
"Yes," Sophie answered, pulling the door wide open.
"Where would you like me to put them?" the man asked
politely as he strode in.
"In the kitchen, please. On the table." The man
looked big to Sophie. She could hardly see his face
between his green cap and full beard. Sophie was glad he
left quickly, and she locked the door after him.
The box was as long as the kitchen table. Sophie drew
near to it and bent over to read the lettering: "NATALIE'S
Flowers for Every Occasion." The rich smell of roses
engulfed her. She closed her eyes and took slower breaths,
imagining yellow roses. Joe had always chosen yellow. "To
my sunshine," he would say, presenting the extravagant
bouquet. He would laugh delightedly, kiss her on the
forehead, then take her hands in his and sing to her "You
Are My Sunshine."
It was five o'clock when Mrs. Mason knocked at
Sophie's front door. Sophie was still at the kitchen
table. The flower box was now open though, and she held
the roses on her lap, swaying slightly and stroking the
delicate yellow petals. Mrs. Mason knocked again, but
Sophie did not hear her, and after several minutes the
neighbor left.
Sophie rose a little while later, laying the flowers
on the kitchen table. Her cheeks were flushed. She
dragged a stepstool across the kitchen floor and lifted a
white porcelain vase from the top corner cabinet. Using a
drinking glass, she filled the vase with water, then
tenderly arranged the roses and greens, and carried them
into the sitting room.
She was smiling as she reached the middle of the room.
She turned slightly and began to dip and twirl in small
slow circles. She stepped lightly, gracefully, around the
sitting room, into the kitchen, down the hall, back again.
She danced till her knees grew weak, and then she dropped
into the armchair and slept.
At a quarter past six, Sophie awoke with a start.
Someone was knocking on the back door this time. It was
Mrs. Mason.
"Hello, Sophie," Mrs. Mason said. "How are you? I
knocked at five and was a little worried when you didn't
come. Were you napping?" She chattered as she wiped her
snowy boots on the welcome mat and stepped inside. "I just
hate the snow, don't you? The radio says we might have six
inches by midnight, but you can never trust them, you know.
Do you remember last winter when they predicted four inches
and we had twenty-one? Twenty-one! And they said we'd
have a mild winter this year. Ha! I don't think it's been
over zero in weeks. Do you know my oil bill was $263 last
month? For my little house!"
Sophie was only half-listening. She had remembered
the roses suddenly and was turning hot with shame. The
empty flower box was behind her on the kitchen table. What
would she say to Mrs. Mason?
"I don't know how much longer I can keep paying the
bills. If only Alfred, God bless him, had been as careful
with money as your Joseph. Joseph! Oh, good heavens! I
almost forgot about the roses."
Sophie's cheeks burned. She began to stammer an
apology, stepping aside to reveal the empty box.
"Oh, good," Mrs. Mason interrupted. "You put the
roses in water. Then you saw the card. I hope it didn't
startle you to see Joseph's handwriting. Joseph had asked
me to bring you the roses the first year, so I could
explain for him. He didn't want to alarm you. His 'Rose
Trust,' I think he called it. He arranged it with the
florist last April. Such a good man, your Joseph..."
But Sophie had stopped listening. Her heart was
pounding as she picked up the small white envelope she had
missed earlier. It had been lying beside the flower box
all the time. With trembling hands, she removed the card.
"To my sunshine," it said. "I love you with all my
heart. Try to be happy when you think of me. Love, Joe."
Thinking of You
By Alicia von Stamwitz
Sophie's face faded into the gray winter light of the
sitting room. She dozed in the armchair that Joe had
bought for her on their fortieth anniversary. The room was
warm and quiet. Outside it was snowing lightly.
At a quarter past one the mailman turned the corner
onto Allen Street. He was behind on his route, not because
of the snow, but because it was Valentine's Day and there
was more mail than usual. He passed Sophie's house without
looking up. Twenty minutes later he climbed back into his
truck and drove off.
Sophie stirred when she heard the mail truck pull
away, then took off her glasses and wiped her mouth and
eyes with the handkerchief she always carried in her
sleeve. She pushed herself up using the arm of the chair
for support, straightened slowly and smoothed the lap of
her dark green housedress.
Her slippers made a soft, shuffling sound on the bare
floor as she walked to the kitchen. She stopped at the
sink to wash the two dishes she had left on the counter
after lunch. Then she filled a plastic cup halfway with
water and took her pills. It was one forty-five.
There was a rocker in the sitting room by the front
window. Sophie eased herself into it. In a half-hour the
children would be passing by on their way home from school.
Sophie waited, rocking and watching the snow.
The boys came first, as always, running and calling
out things Sophie could not hear. Today they were making
snowballs as they went, throwing them at one another. One
snowball missed and smacked hard into Sophie's window. She
jerked backward, and the rocker slipped off the edge of her
oval rag rug.
The girls dilly-dallied after the boys, in twos and
threes, cupping their mittened hands over their mouths and
giggling. Sophie wondered if they were telling each other
about the valentines they had received at school. One
pretty girl with long brown hair stopped and pointed to the
window where Sophie sat watching. Sophie slipped her face
behind the drapes, suddenly self-conscious.
When she looked out again, the boys and girls were
gone. It was cold by the window, but she stayed there
watching the snow cover the children's footprints.
A florist's truck turned onto Allen Street. Sophie
followed it with her eyes. It was moving slowly. Twice it
stopped and started again. Then the driver pulled up in
front of Mrs. Mason's house next door and parked.
Who would be sending Mrs. Mason flowers? Sophie
wondered. Her daughter in Wisconsin? Or her brother? No,
her brother was very ill. It was probably her daughter.
How nice of her.
Flowers made Sophie think of Joe and, for a moment,
she let the aching memory fill her. Tomorrow was the
fifteenth. Eight months since his death.
The flower man was knocking at Mrs. Mason's front
door. He carried a long white and green box and a
clipboard. No one seemed to be answering. Of course! It
was Friday ? Mrs. Mason quilted at the church on Friday
afternoons. The delivery man looked around, then started
toward Sophie's house.
Sophie shoved herself out of the rocker and stood
close to the drapes. The man knocked. Her hands trembled
as she straightened her hair. She reached her front hall
on his third knock.
"Yes?" she said, peering around a slightly opened
door.
"Good afternoon, ma'am," the man said loudly. "Would
you take a delivery for your neighbor?"
"Yes," Sophie answered, pulling the door wide open.
"Where would you like me to put them?" the man asked
politely as he strode in.
"In the kitchen, please. On the table." The man
looked big to Sophie. She could hardly see his face
between his green cap and full beard. Sophie was glad he
left quickly, and she locked the door after him.
The box was as long as the kitchen table. Sophie drew
near to it and bent over to read the lettering: "NATALIE'S
Flowers for Every Occasion." The rich smell of roses
engulfed her. She closed her eyes and took slower breaths,
imagining yellow roses. Joe had always chosen yellow. "To
my sunshine," he would say, presenting the extravagant
bouquet. He would laugh delightedly, kiss her on the
forehead, then take her hands in his and sing to her "You
Are My Sunshine."
It was five o'clock when Mrs. Mason knocked at
Sophie's front door. Sophie was still at the kitchen
table. The flower box was now open though, and she held
the roses on her lap, swaying slightly and stroking the
delicate yellow petals. Mrs. Mason knocked again, but
Sophie did not hear her, and after several minutes the
neighbor left.
Sophie rose a little while later, laying the flowers
on the kitchen table. Her cheeks were flushed. She
dragged a stepstool across the kitchen floor and lifted a
white porcelain vase from the top corner cabinet. Using a
drinking glass, she filled the vase with water, then
tenderly arranged the roses and greens, and carried them
into the sitting room.
She was smiling as she reached the middle of the room.
She turned slightly and began to dip and twirl in small
slow circles. She stepped lightly, gracefully, around the
sitting room, into the kitchen, down the hall, back again.
She danced till her knees grew weak, and then she dropped
into the armchair and slept.
At a quarter past six, Sophie awoke with a start.
Someone was knocking on the back door this time. It was
Mrs. Mason.
"Hello, Sophie," Mrs. Mason said. "How are you? I
knocked at five and was a little worried when you didn't
come. Were you napping?" She chattered as she wiped her
snowy boots on the welcome mat and stepped inside. "I just
hate the snow, don't you? The radio says we might have six
inches by midnight, but you can never trust them, you know.
Do you remember last winter when they predicted four inches
and we had twenty-one? Twenty-one! And they said we'd
have a mild winter this year. Ha! I don't think it's been
over zero in weeks. Do you know my oil bill was $263 last
month? For my little house!"
Sophie was only half-listening. She had remembered
the roses suddenly and was turning hot with shame. The
empty flower box was behind her on the kitchen table. What
would she say to Mrs. Mason?
"I don't know how much longer I can keep paying the
bills. If only Alfred, God bless him, had been as careful
with money as your Joseph. Joseph! Oh, good heavens! I
almost forgot about the roses."
Sophie's cheeks burned. She began to stammer an
apology, stepping aside to reveal the empty box.
"Oh, good," Mrs. Mason interrupted. "You put the
roses in water. Then you saw the card. I hope it didn't
startle you to see Joseph's handwriting. Joseph had asked
me to bring you the roses the first year, so I could
explain for him. He didn't want to alarm you. His 'Rose
Trust,' I think he called it. He arranged it with the
florist last April. Such a good man, your Joseph..."
But Sophie had stopped listening. Her heart was
pounding as she picked up the small white envelope she had
missed earlier. It had been lying beside the flower box
all the time. With trembling hands, she removed the card.
"To my sunshine," it said. "I love you with all my
heart. Try to be happy when you think of me. Love, Joe."