Today I turned seventy-three years old. I woke at six as usual, though I haven’t needed to rise that early for a long time. It’s a habit formed over decades of opening the store by eight.
Clive always said getting up early was a sign of discipline. Clive said a lot of things. Most of his wisdom turned out to be just words.
I got out of the bed I’d slept in alone for ten years and went to the window. Frankfurt was waking up with me. The old letter carrier, Bert, was already delivering the morning mail.
Mrs. Hamilton was walking her pug, and lights glowed inside the Jenkins bakery. Fifty years I’ve watched the same picture.
But the faces change. Bert’s father used to deliver the mail. Mrs.
Hamilton once had a cat instead of a dog, and the Jenkins parents owned the bakery. I was not an old woman then, but a young one with three children and a husband who promised me the world. My reflection in the window reminded me there wasn’t much left of that young woman.
Gray hair I’d stopped dyeing five years ago. Wrinkles I’d stopped hiding under makeup around the same time. Arms with protruding veins and knotted joints—the result of years lifting boxes of nails, dragging cans of paint, and hauling rolls of wallpaper across a stubborn floor.
The phone on the nightstand was silent. I didn’t expect a call. My children rarely remember my birthday.
Last year Marilyn sent a card three days late. Patrick sent a Facebook message. And Edwin—well, Edwin called, but only to ask for money for a new stereo.
I put on an old robe, went down to the kitchen, and set the kettle on. The refrigerator was half empty, as usual. Why cook for one person?
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