Macy Rains

The Brown Paper Box

I saw her every Tuesday. I watched her shuffle into my diner exactly at noon, her cool grey, short hair curled in place, same blue argyle knitted sweater. Her orthopedic, bright white sneakers squeaking in every other step. She sat in the same booth, against the east side wall windows, overlooking the prairie. I always gave her a water and cup of black coffee. And I always saw the box.