One Page #35

Perhaps she was heartened by the greeting card left in her mailbox with no stamp informing her that it had been hand delivered while she had been in town. It was odd knowing that someone had come to her house while she was away. While she was buying zucchini or looking at the most recent cooking magazines, someone had come by and opened her mailbox leaving her a note. She fingered the creamy white envelope and admired the calligraphy spelling out her name. Someone had been thinking about her earlier and had drawn out each letter of her name. She might have been taking a shower or cutting strawberries over her cereal while someone was licking the tacky glue on the edge of the seal, securing a letter inside. She had been oblivious to this entire process while she went about her daily chores. The kitchen still needed to be mopped and her books needed dusting. But that could wait a moment. Her groceries were heavy on her arm so she took them and the letter to her front porch. The groceries waited on the front steps while she carefully unsealed the envelope and pulled out a matching creamy paper folded twice. She unfolded it and found the same cursive handwriting inside. The writing was brief. She had been invited to dinner the following evening. Her neighbor, Gracie, had a garden overflowing with vegetables and was inviting the block to her house for dinner in an attempt to free her kitchen counters from the overwhelming amount of tomatoes and squash and basil. She was heartened by this invitation. But a small and private part of her was disappointed as well. The cursive was so sensually inviting and reminded her of cherry pie in late summer. She thought maybe, just maybe. But no, not today. Dinner would be delightful and she would share a bountiful meal with her neighbors who were often too busy to get together with one another. She looked up at the sky and saw that it was darkening in preparation for a storm. The air was thick and she figured she should pick some of her own tomatoes before the rain came. She brought the groceries inside and laid the May Sarton novel that had been in her pocket on the kitchen table. Back outside she was attacked by mosquitoes that were attracted by the sweat on her brow. She went to feed her sheep, one black and one white, and moved them into the barn for the storm. They bleated at her and nosed into her pockets in hopes that she had brought them a treat. She had, of course. It started to rain. The tomatoes were still hanging on the vine as the drops fell with attacking force on her garden. She followed her sheep into the barn and stayed there for the storm, stroking their dirty wool, so thick.