All I was doing was taking a few moments to converse, to listen a bit: just simple, friendly exchanges like any other on my mail carrier’s route. Edna was an older woman, perhaps eighty, who always met me on her front walk midway between her open doorway and the sidewalk; I supposed she was waiting each morning for my arrival. I knew her husband’s passing had been recent because I hadn’t seen him for several months, and his Social Security and Veteran’s Affairs checks began coming in her name instead. When I first noticed, it was early spring.
She was a little bent, wore a powder-blue housecoat she clenched to her chest in one fist and slippers; I could see through her cotton-candy cap of hair to her skull. Her lips regularly trembled, which I passed off to age. After I handed her the daily packet of mail, mostly flyers, I’d ask how she was doing, and then we’d exchange pleasantries. We’d talk about the weather, progress on the new house being built across the street, snippets of local news, the changing seasons. Generally, no more than five minutes after which I’d say that I’d better be getting on my way, tip my cap, give her shoulder a pat, and head back to the sidewalk. She never began her return to the house while I was still within sight. I had no idea how long she stood there afterwards.
Sometimes, she’d let a small mention of her husband creep into our conversations. How he’d love the new buds on his prized roses that lined the front walk. How the previous day’s mail had included an invitation to another of his former squadron’s reunions. How she’d finally donated his old clothes to Goodwill. Usually random and after brief silences, within no context of whatever we’d been talking about. I’d nod, then, not say anything much in reply except to let her eyes remain on mine. Finally, she’d raise another subject, or more often, pause long enough for me to gracefully end our exchange.
A morning came in late May when she was waiting for me with her free hand under the fist that held her robe closed. When I reached out her mail, she did the same with that other hand. It held a small bouquet of her husband’s roses, pink and red, the short stems bound by a rubber band
She said, “These are for you.”
I felt my eyes widen as we traded items. I brought the roses to my nose, inhaled their fragrance, smiled, and said, “Thanks.”
“No, thank you.” She paused. “I couldn’t have made it through these past few months without our…talks. Your thoughtfulness has meant the world to me.”
She said nothing more, but just turned and shuffled to her open doorway with her mail. She went through it, closed the door, gave me a little wave through the glass, then disappeared into the house’s dim and silent interior.
