A Paper Parcel

Bright yellow daffodils brushed against the house in the wind. I could smell the sweet and subtle aroma, mixing with the dozens of other flowers in the garden, my garden. I had a lot of time on my hands as a widow, plenty of plants to be potted. The rest of the yard was sectioned off for various fruits and vegetables. The tomatoes were coming in lovely, plump and red. My tea was still hot and steaming and I dropped a couple sugar cubes in with a plop. The tinking teaspoon swirled around, spreading the sweetness. The first sip was always the most perfect, before it all settled. Everything was perfect, really. Only it didn’t feel that way, something was missing. I couldn’t put my finger on it for the longest until that day the world came crashing down on me.

The town was a ways down the road and sat nestled in the green forest. My cozy cabin found its home miles away, out on the furthest edge. It was an understatement to say I hardly had visitors, never would have been more accurate. My memory wasn’t my strength and my late husband teased me about it often. Years seemed to be lost to my mind and the few things I did remember were like old, dusty ghosts that I could never fully see. The only person I ever saw or spoke to was the courier boy and he was always in a hurry, “people to see, papers to deliver,” as he would say. I think the clever boy had crafted a witty phrase that regularly got him out of many such lonely conversations. I couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t much of a surprise then when I heard a rapping at the door. I always knew when the boy was coming, partly because I could see the road through the slats in the fence, but also I gave partial credit to woman's intuition. I heard another rap, tap, tapping and it snapped me from my daydream.

“Coming! Oh, hang on boy!”

As I grabbed the warm metal handle , he struck the door three more times before I flung it open and away from his assault.

“What’s gotten into you? You only need to knock once.”

It came out ruder than I had hoped for, my lack of human interaction was blatantly obvious. He didn’t seem to notice much.

“Sorry, mam. Papers busy today. Got lots of work. People to see-”

“And papers to deliver?” I answered.

We often played this sing-song game, only he was opening with the line now. Was I really so appalling to talk to?

“Are you doing well, Miss? You look worried.”

“There’s always a little worry in a widow’s face. But thank you, son. I’m doing well today, just enjoying some sun in the garden. I smiled but it felt forced.

“Okay, good. I’m happy when you're happy.”

He smiled with the light of innocence and love. Then he held out his hand.

“-and you know what makes me happier?”

I rolled my eyes and pulled three coppers from my pocket. They clinked as they fell into his tiny, cupped hands.

“Three coppers? Thank you Miss! Have a blessed day.”

He was already skipping down the trail before I could say anything, but I still called out to him.

“You too, hun! See you next week.”

He waved back but continued his trek forward, on to the next customer and the next copper made. He was a good kid. When he was over the horizon and out of my sight, I finally looked down to see what he had delivered. In my hands I held a small brown paper wrapped parcel. It was odd as I never received packages. It was unmarked and perfectly twisted and crinkled at the edges.

I brought the package to the garden and set it on the table. After a sip of tea, a deep breath, and a few encouraging words to myself, I was ready to open it. The paper tore away and I felt like a child on Christmas again, but I was more anxious than excited. A parcel to me was as intimate as a conversation. The paper fell to the stone tiled ground like a loud feather. My hands began to tremble and my heart raced. Perched on the table was a plain white box. I lifted it by the snug fitted lid and let the box slowly slide out. I peeked over the edge to look inside and was stupefied. A single black and white photo sat upon a stack of momentos; children’s toys, onesies, and tiny blankets. The photo was of a beautiful woman, strong and loving, and in her arms she held a baby. Seeing her face was like seeing another old ghost, only her face snapped into focus and overwhelmed me with emotions and memories. I knew then, looking at that photo, who she was. My long dead mother who was a stranger to me. The way she held me, I looked so safe. The tears welled up in my eyes and I moved on to the next thing I saw. Tucked in the side was an envelope and I tore it open to a neatly handwritten letter.

“I’ve loved you longer than you know, since a babe to you now. You are a beautiful young woman, just like your mother. That’s why I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry honey, but you are not sick, you aren’t a widow, and you shouldn’t be alone in that cabin. I’m coming to see you soon.

-With love, Grandma.”

I fell back into the chair and held back my tears no longer. All the pent up emotions flowed from me in a laughing, coughing, wheezing cry. It was all coming back to me, my family, how I ended up here.

“Thank you,” I said to the sky.

It was a pale blue, light and fluffy. I could hear the birds singing their lovely song. I was going home.