That Saturday morning I woke feeling sad but didn’t know why. The sun was shining. The lilac bushes in my front yard were in bloom. It was one of those June mornings that usually put a spring in my step. But this day my sadness deepened as the morning wore on.
I tried to shake the feeling by walking down to the village. I took in the cloudless blue sky over the mountains and breathed in the scent of the wild roses that grew along the rural road. But that didn’t help. By the time I reached the post office I felt real grief.
I must have looked sad too. As I pushed through the door the postmistress asked, “You okay, Rhonda? Something wrong?”
“I’m fine,” I told Susan. “Just a little tired, I guess.”
I dodged more questions by opening my mailbox. Then I sorted my mail at the small counter, putting most of it in the recycling bin. Other than bills and advertising flyers, I didn’t get much mail any more. People sent emails instead, of course.
My mother used to send me letters though, even after I moved to this lakeside village where she lived. She said emails were impersonal, just words on a screen. Handwritten letters, on the other hand, were a gift. I didn’t understand why she kept sending me letters when I lived just up the road. But now that Mom had passed away, I missed getting them.
As I thought of my mother’s letters, I finally figured out why I felt so sad. It had been exactly one year since my mother died. My eyes stung as a new wave of grief washed over me. But I didn’t want to cry in front of the postmistress. I wiped my eyes and tried to focus on sorting my mail.
Then I came across a delivery notice card. A package had arrived in the mail for me. That was strange. I hadn’t ordered anything online.
My birthday wasn’t until fall so I knew the parcel wasn’t from my aunt. Every September my mother’s sister, Auntie Lisa, sends me a small gift by mail, even though she lives in the area. My brother Doug also has a house close by, but I hadn’t seen him since Mom’s funeral. Mom had been the one to bring our family together, for Sunday dinner at her condo.
I handed the delivery notice card to the postmistress. Susan paused as she took it. “You sure you’re okay?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I just realized it’s one year today since my mother died.”
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” Susan squeezed my hand. “I loved your mom! Meg was such a dear woman. We visited here just about every day.”
In her final years, my mom had lived in a condo only a couple of blocks from the post office. After my marriage ended, I rented my house just up the road from her. I was glad I did. Mom often took care of my son when he was too young to stay at home alone. And when Mom got the news from her doctor that she had breast cancer, I was there to help her out. As I thought of those final years with my mother, I started to tear up again.
“You and your mom were very close, weren’t you?” Susan asked me.
I nodded. “She was always there for me,” I said.
“I know you were a big help to her when she was sick.”
“She helped me through a rough time too,” I said.
“Your divorce?”
I hesitated before answering. I imagined my mother had told Susan about that. Mom wasn’t always discreet. She sometimes told strangers, like Susan, about my life. Mom had also stuck her nose in my business, giving me advice even though I was a grown woman. But after her death, I would have given anything to have one last chat with her. I often wished for her guidance now, especially her tips on parenting my son Cody.
“I don’t know how I would have gotten through my divorce without her,” I said. “She took care of Cody when I needed to deal with—” I stopped there. Now I was giving Susan too much information. I could see why my mother had befriended Susan, though. She was easy to talk to.
Susan waited a moment to see if I would continue. When I didn’t, she waved the delivery notice card. “I’ll get your package,” she said.
I took off my glasses and wiped my eyes as I waited. I was glad I was the only person in the post office. It had been a year since my mother’s death. Why was I crying now?
“Here you go,” said Susan. She set a small box on the counter in front of me.
“This can’t be right,” I said.
“Wrong address?” Susan asked.
“No, it’s addressed to me. But this package is from my mother.”
“That’s impossible. Like you said, Meg has been gone a year.” Susan peered at the box. “And why do you think it’s from her? There’s no return address.”
I ran a finger along my own address written on the brown wrapping. “I would know my mother’s handwriting anywhere,” I said. I looked up at Susan. “Did she send this before her death? Could this package have been lost in the mail for that long?”
Susan scratched her head. “I suppose. Stranger things have happened. I once read about a letter that was delivered forty-five years after it was sent.” She took a close look at the postmark. “But your package was mailed this week.”
I felt a shock run through me. Could my mother have sent this parcel? Was she still alive? I shook my head at the foolish idea. When my mother passed away, I was right there holding her hand. “I don’t understand,” I said. “Who sent this?”
Susan shrugged. “I guess you’ll have to open it to find out.” She looked down at the box as if she wanted to find out too.
While I liked Susan, I didn’t know her that well. I wasn’t about to open the package in front of her. Who knew what was inside?
Still, I couldn’t wait until I got home. I carried the box back to the counter by the mailboxes. There I used my keys to rip the tape on the box. I tore off the brown paper wrapper and opened the flaps. “Oh!” I cried, because I couldn’t believe what I found inside.