I walk up the steps to the Post Office, and when I pass through the doors I avert my eyes. I know the plain white sheet of paper is for her. I don’t need to read the notice. I already know that the funeral is today at 2:00.

Again, it came too soon and too abruptly, and its hard to make peace with it. She had barely retired. Her husband and family will miss her. She was loved. She was part of the community.

She loved to read, and we exchanged books from time to time.

She spoke softly.

She washed the torn skin of each of my boys at one time or another, smiling at them in the tiny hospital room. Holding, counting stitches, bandaging, marvelling at whatever crazy stunt had precipitated the injury.

As I leave the Post Office I glance at the stark, white notice. I think it should at least be printed on pretty paper. It should be printed on soft pink paper with a border of flowers, perhaps.

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