Thinking of You

To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.
Thomas Campbell

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 fif-teenth. 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 porce-lain 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."
Alicia von Stamwitz