Today's Date

Today’s Date



She heard the alarm go off at 6:00 a.m., as it had every morning for the past 60 years. Walter insisted it was the ideal time to get out of bed.
It was only a short drive to the office at the warehouse he owned, and he didn’t have to be there until 8:00. But he liked what he called his window. “It gives me some thinking room,” he was fond of saying.
So she did it out of habit for Walter, who by now was a romantic memory perched on her nightstand in a simple frame, all proud and handsome. A sepia hero in the last uniform she would ever see him in.
“Top of the morning to you. This is Apple Sevier with the local news, brought to you by the fine folks at Sherry’s Cafe. Stop by for the best homemade biscuits in town every chance you get. You’re always welcome at Sherry’s, located on Highway 441.
We’ve got a bit of snow in Passover this morning but the roads are okay, according to local law officials. Sorry, kids, but school’s in session. In other news...”
She could hear the coffee maker gurgling its last bit of brew. Her sister gave it to her, a couple of Christmases ago.
She slapped Mr. Sevier off the air, shuffled her feet a little to find the old, frayed, comfortable, pink bedroom slippers and made her way to the first cup of Joe. Walter always called it Joe.
Fluffy would have to be taken care of. He would cry enough to get on her last nerve if she didn’t produce a fresh bowl of water and a substantial amount of the dried-up balls the supermarket in town called cat food. How could he eat it? But that’s all he ever wanted.
The coffee was good. She liked the smell and the warmth of the cup and its weight as she cradled it in her hands. “The simple enjoyments,” she thought. “Like ‘em while you can.”
At precisely five minutes until the hour of eight o’clock she put a fleece robe over her flannel nightgown and stepped onto the porch of the old log cabin. There wasn’t enough snow in evidence to excite anyone except Apple.
Looking through the window at the television she turned the ancient antenna until she was satisfied with the reception and then went back inside.
The Reverend Ralph Standard was talking to her personally, promising salvation and a prayer cloth for only $19.95. She wrote a check, still in view of the reverend from her kitchen table. The table is round and appropriate; her life revolves around it. King Arthur had his knights. She had a checkbook, a journal of poetry and a bottle of cheap bourbon in the pantry that no one knew about. She had the daily phone call from her sister and sometimes Fluffy would lie upside down and want to be petted. She called the table Gumption, for she needed it so.
Cheryl rang at nine like clockwork. “My arthritis is killing me and I think I’ve got gout. WHEELER/Soard
Hope you’re going to church. How’s the coffee pot? Chit chat, chit chat.”
Truly, she loved her sister. She also loved hanging up on her. She asked herself what love really was. The Walter of decades ago? The sister who will never understand? Fluffy when he lies on my feet at night? The Jesus promised by Rev. Standard? A snort before bed?
Every once in awhile the gumption worked. Now considered a hardship case by the local post office, her mail was delivered to the door. It hurt a bit to be labeled disabled. Shoot, it hurt a bit to be this old.
She slipped out of her clothes and gazed at the image in the full-length mirror on the back of her bedroom door.
She didn’t see the wrinkles or the sagging breasts. She saw hope and took it into the bathroom where the makeup mirror would help her with blue eyeliner, mascara and face powder.
She wanted to look good for the mailman. He visited every day except Sunday.