A pale, wrinkled hand reached into the mailbox and pulled out a single letter addressed to “Mrs. Eleanor Westbrook”. The old woman gazed at the familiar script and smiled. Every day for the last 15 years, ever since Robert had died, the letter faithfully came. Except for Sundays and holidays, the carrier never failed to leave her one letter in the box to cheer her.
Loneliness was a terrible companion. Her two grown children lived in other states and were too busy. She had no neighbors within a half mile. No other family. No one who cared but this one friend.
They never called each other, only wrote. Day after day, the letter brought news and good thoughts. She wondered at times what she would ever do if the letters stopped.
Hobbling back to her cottage, Eleanor stopped to pull a weed hiding under a rose branch. Her garden was prolific. Tulips covered the dirt mounds in the corners of the yard. Clumps of magenta Sweet Williams and white alyssum spotted the ground between the long leaves of the spring bulbs. Soon daffodils would push their way through, competing for ground space. Roses climbed over and through her picket fence. Baskets of begonias and geraniums crowded in with African violets and alyssum left little room to walk up the steps and across the little porch. Inside, the ferns, jade plants, spider plants, Creeping Charlies, and her prized orchids covered her tables and counters.
A few photographs of Robert in his Air Corps uniform, her children growing up and marrying, grandbabies doing the same, dotted the walls. The only evidence that other people existed.
Placing her treasured mail on the table, Eleanor pulled a goblet down from the shelf and poured herself a glass of sherry, her one indulgence of the day. From a special drawer, she carefully retrieved two Mint Milano cookies, placing them on a delicate bone china dessert plate. Several minutes later, Eleanor had herself properly arranged, cookies in front, sherry exactly to her upper right, linen napkin unfolded in her lap. A mother-of-pearl letter opener at her left hand, flanked by a box of stationary and her favorite rose-colored ceramic pen. She was ready.
Her aged, trembling fingers unfolded the ivory parchment. The handwriting, once flowing and elegant, was now shaky. Eleanor didn’t allow herself to notice.
“My Dearest Eleanor,” the letter began. “Today my tulips opened. A bit late, but what can one expect in such erratic weather?” Eleanor nodded her head in silent agreement. The usually predictable weather had indeed become a wild, unmanageable thing, bent on ruining her best gardens. She sat back in her chair and enjoyed the letter, word by word. When she was finished, she read it again, unwilling to say good-bye.
Folding it up, Eleanor placed the letter back into its envelope and put it aside. She retrieved a single page from the box beside her. Delicate violets graced the upper right corner of the page. There wasn’t very much happening, but that didn’t matter. Good friends found interest in the most mundane of events. Her bleeding heart was getting massive and was covered in gorgeous, pink blossoms. Wonderful to see after a long winter. Meadowlarks woke her every morning. She might like to sleep just a little longer, but they made it so nice to wake up.
Yesterday, it had been difficult to remain buoyant. She’d dreamed of Robert again. A good dream; flashes of their life together, teaching her how to drive, walking by the lake, making love in their cottage. But with the sunrise came the harsh reality he was gone. One day, she thought. I’ll be there one day. But fifteen years was a long string of “one day’s”. Lately, it was feeling just a little too long.
Shaking it off, Eleanor had chided herself for wallowing in such selfish indulgence. Her friend would never want to read such self-pity. Still, a real friend would understand. Perhaps just a sentence or two about the dream, then on to much more pleasant news about the roses covered in buds. How fragrant they were last year! She could hardly wait for them to open again.
Her hands had defied her, lately. Once steady enough to embroider delicate lace handkerchiefs, now she could hardly hold her glass of sherry. Only last week while she was writing a letter, her hands shook so hard that drops of the deep red liquid had escaped the crystal and fallen, staining the lower right corner of her stationary. “Oh!” Her exclamation had been pointless. There it was and there it would stay. A wipe with a napkin only cleaned off the excess. Well, her friend wasn’t exactly a girl of 20, either. She would just have to understand.
Eleanor smiled to herself as she resumed her writing. Today was better. Her hands were more steady, her health was good. Blood pressure a bit high, but she was managing it well. So far, her diabetes was behaving itself. According to her doctor, the new dosage was working well.
After a page of cheerful chatter, Eleanor signed her letter, folded it into an envelope and stamped it. Flowered stamps seemed just right. She knew it wouldn’t go out until the next day, but that was alright. One a day, every day. It was good to have a friend.
The next morning, Eleanor looked out the window to see the mailman making his rounds. She saw him retrieve her letter and deliver another in its place. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw the slightest shake of his head as he went on his way. Some people had no manners at all!
Another day, another trek to the mailbox. It was getting harder. Her hips objected, even to the 30 feet from her door to the end of the driveway. One day she’d have to have the mailbox moved to her porch.
Back to the house with her letter, Eleanor repeated her ritual, the sherry, the cookies, her favorite stationary and pen. Then she sat down to read, admiring the flower stamp before opening the envelope. The ivory parchment with delicate violets in the upper right corner bade her Good Morning. “My dearest Eleanor, I dreamed last night of my beloved Robert. How long has it been now? Fifteen years? Some times I can hardly remember his face. If it weren’t for photographs I fear I might lose him entirely. …” The familiar handwriting in fine black ink, the warm chatter of flowers in bloom, birds, weather and kindnesses missed.
There was a smudge in the lower right corner where a drop of sherry had spilled. And the signature line, “With all my love, your Eleanor.”
It was good to have a friend.
