Momma stayed in bed for most of the morning.  This was highly unusual as Momma wasn’t one to lay around lolly-gagging in bed all day.  She might get up and dressed and retire to the couch with a book and a cup of tea, but that was somehow different in her mind than staying in her nightgown all day.  Around noon, Momma’s doorbell rang.  She ignored it thinking it was probably one of the neighbors come to seek gossip disguised as a cup of sugar.  A few minutes later, the doorbell rang again.  Unfazed, Momma put her pillow over her head and sank deeper into her bed.

Whoever was at the door must have been desperate because they rang the doorbell several times in a row and then began banging on the front door.  Momma finally decided to get up and see what was going on, thinking it might actually be something important.  Slowly, she crept to the front door and remained stationary under the peephole for several instants.  Momma steadily raised her eye to the peephole and glanced out.  Her visitor seemed to have given up as there was no one on the stoop.

Gingerly, Momma opened the front door a crack, keeping her head between the edge of the door and its jam, hoping that there wasn’t a photographer from the paper waiting to grab her picture while she was wearing her nightgown.  After a few furtive glances, it was apparent that there wasn’t anyone hiding in the bushes, or any cars on the street for that matter.  Momma moved to shut the front door when she saw a bouquet of roses tied with a ribbon on her doormat.  With the flowers was a small envelope with her name written upon it in small, neat handwriting.

Momma quickly opened her screen door, snatched up the flowers and envelope and went back in her house, slamming the front door.  Her curiosity wanted to see what was next, yet she was afraid.  Momma leaned against the front door for a moment using it to support her back as she slowly slid to the floor, breathing deeply, eyes closed, allowing her body to recover from the sudden rush of adrenaline it had just experienced.  This wasn’t a physical experience Momma was accustomed to.  Her life didn’t allow for such.

Momma opened her eyes and looked at the envelope.  Slowly, she slid one finger under its seal and pulled out the paper concealed within it.  On one single sheet of unfolded card stock was written.


Evelyn,

I can’t compose more bad poetry and it looks like my idea to get your attention is upsetting you.  I thought it would be something romantic that a lady like you might enjoy.  I am sorry for any trouble I have caused you.

If you are willing, meet me tonight at 9:30 PM in the beanery.  I will be holding the 12th rose from this dozen.  If you don’t come, I will always have this last rose to remind me  of you…the one who stood out from the crowd and took my heart.

Hoping to see you.


There was no signature.  Momma counted the roses.  There were only 11.  The twelfth was waiting for her.

All day, Momma debated about meeting her admirer.  She was fairly certain it was the boy she had met at the beanery and who had also showed up at her work soon after.  The poetry this man had composed certainly seemed juvenile enough to fit.  The foolish bravado of the signs added to this conclusion.  But the note, and the roses seemed somehow to contradict this theory.  Whoever he was, he may not know how to write poetry, but something told Momma that he just might know how to live it.

Still, she felt it was the boy.  Maybe he had help from an older friend in writing this note and coming up with the idea of the roses to tempt her.  Finally, Momma decided she should go that evening in order to tell him that she was not interested, that even though she thought he was nice, he was too young for her.  The difference in their ages and places of life simply was too big an obstacle for there to be anything more than friendship between them.  Momma knew that she could not trust the initial surge of emotion she had about Uncle Wayne.

Momma left her house to drive to the beanery.  Her stomach was tied in knots and she hoped that she wouldn’t get sick once she arrived.  Luckily, having such a nervous stomach, she hadn’t eaten all day, and there wouldn’t have been much for her stomach to reject.  Being a punctual sort of person, Momma arrived at exactly 9:30, and walked down the steps to the coffee house.  Her heart in her throat, she began to scan the crowd, looking for Wayne.  He wasn’t there.

Momma felt dizzy and leaned against the wall.  Maybe he had changed his mind.  Momma started back up the stairs when she felt a hand on her arm.

“Are you OK?”

It was Horace, Daddy.  Momma fumbled a bit, “I’m fine.  I was supposed to meet someone.  I don’t think he’s here.”

“Are you sure?”  Daddy looked at Momma right in the eye.  His hand tightened slightly around her arm.

“Well, no…I,”  Momma looked at the floor.  

Daddy pulled his other arm from behind his back.  In his had was a single rose.  Momma’s eyes widened.  

“You…I…I thought…but…”

Daddy was still holding the rose.  He took his arm off of Mommas.  She stood straighter and looked at Daddy.  He met her gaze.  Momma’s hands stayed at her side.  Her eyes shifted to the rose he was offering.  Momma closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and opened her eyes to regard Daddy again.  Something shifted somewhere inside her.  Momma said it wasn’t like a door closing and a window opening or even a change in direction.  It was deeper, as if whatever had shifted inside had done so in order to make room for something else.

Momma reached for the rose.  Daddy’s hand closed around hers.  “Let’s sit down and have some coffee.”

“I like tea,” Momma replied.