ROSES
Red roses were her favorites,
her name was also Rose.
And every year her husband sent them,
tied with pretty bows.
The year he died,
the roses were delivered to her door.
The card said, "Be my Valentine",
like all the years before.
Each year he sent her roses,
and the note would always say,
I love you even more this year,
than last year on this day.
My love for you will always grow,
with every passing year."
She knew this was the last time
that the roses would appear.
She thought, he ordered roses
in advance before this day.
Her loving husband did not know,
that he would pass away.
He always liked to do things early,
way before the time.
Then, if he got too busy,
everything would work out fine.
She trimmed the stems,
and placed them in a very special vase.
Then, sat the vase
beside the portrait of his smiling face.
She would sit for hours,
in her husband's favorite chair.
While staring at his picture,
and the roses sitting there.
A year went by,
and it was hard to live without her mate.
With loneliness and solitude,
that had become her fate.
Then, the very hour,
as on Valentines before,
The doorbell rang, and there were roses,
sitting by her door.
She brought the roses in,
and then just looked at them in shock.
Then, went to get the telephone,
to call the florist shop.
The owner answered,
and she asked him,
if he would explain,
Why would someone do this to her,
causing her such pain?
I know your husband passed away,
more than a year ago,"
The owner said, "I knew you'd call,
and you would want to know.
The flowers you received today,
were paid for in advance.
Your husband always planned ahead,
he left nothing to chance.
There is a standing order,
that I have on file down here,
And he has paid, well in advance,
you'll get them every year.
There also is another thing,
that I think you should know,
He wrote a special little card...he did this years ago.
Then, should ever I find out that he's no longer here,
That's the card...that should be sent,
to you the following year."
She thanked him and hung up the phone,
her tears now flowing hard.
Her fingers shaking,
as she slowly reached to get the card.
Inside the card, she saw
that he had written her a note.
Then, as she stared in total silence,
this is what he wrote...
Hello my love,
I know it's been a year since I've been gone,
I hope it hasn't been too
hard for you to overcome.
I know it must be lonely,
and the pain is very real.
Or if it was the other way,
I know how I would feel.
The love we shared made everything
so beautiful in life.
I loved you more than words can say,
you were the perfect wife.
you fullfilled my every need.
I know it's only been a year,
but please try not to grieve.
I want you to be happy,
even when you shed your tears.
That is why the roses will
be sent to you for years.
When you get these roses,
think of all the happiness,
That we had together,
I have always loved you
and I know I always will.
But, my love, you must go on,
you have some living still.
Please...try to find happiness,
while living out your days.
I know it is not easy,
but I hope you find some ways.
The roses will come every year,
and they will only stop,
When your door's not answered,
when the florist stops to knock.
He will come five times that day,
in case you have gone out.
But after his last visit,
he will know without a doubt,
To take the roses to the place,
where I've instructed him.
And place the roses where we are,
together once again.
- taken from email.
Monday, July 2, 2007
Life.
Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. It was a cowboy's life, a
life
for someone who wanted no boss. What I didn't realize was that it was also
a
ministry.
Because I drove the night shift, my cab became a moving confessional.
Passengers climbed in, sat behind me in total anonymity, and told me about
their lives. I encountered people whose lives amazed me, ennobled me, made
me laugh and weep.
But none touched me more than a woman I picked up late one August night.
I was responding to a call from a small brick fourplex in a quiet part of
town. I assumed I was being sent to pick up some partiers, or someone who
had just had a fight with a lover, or a worker heading to an early shift at
some factory for the industrial part of town.
When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single
light
in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would
just
honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many
impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of
transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the
door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned
to
myself. So I walked to the door and knocked.
"Just a minute," answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something
being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A
small
woman in her 80s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a
pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie.
By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one
had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There
were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In
the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.
"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase to
the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked
slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness.
"It's nothing," I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I
would want my mother treated."
"Oh, you're such a good boy," she said.
When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Could you
drive
through downtown?"
"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.
"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a
hospice."
I looked in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were glistening.
"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't
have
very long."
I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you like
me
to take?" I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the
building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove
through
the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were
newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had
once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she'd
ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit
staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm
tired. Let's go now."
We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building,
like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a
portico.
Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were
solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been
expecting her.
I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was
already seated in a wheelchair.
"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.
"Nothing," I said.
"You have to make a living," she answered.
"There are other passengers," I responded.
Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me
tightly.
"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."
I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a
door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.
I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in
thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman
had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What
if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?
On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important
in
my life. We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great
moments. But great moments often catch us unaware - beautifully wrapped in
what others may consider a small one.
People may not remember exactly what you did, or what you said, but they
will always remember how you made them feel.
- taken from email.
life
for someone who wanted no boss. What I didn't realize was that it was also
a
ministry.
Because I drove the night shift, my cab became a moving confessional.
Passengers climbed in, sat behind me in total anonymity, and told me about
their lives. I encountered people whose lives amazed me, ennobled me, made
me laugh and weep.
But none touched me more than a woman I picked up late one August night.
I was responding to a call from a small brick fourplex in a quiet part of
town. I assumed I was being sent to pick up some partiers, or someone who
had just had a fight with a lover, or a worker heading to an early shift at
some factory for the industrial part of town.
When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single
light
in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would
just
honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many
impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of
transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the
door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned
to
myself. So I walked to the door and knocked.
"Just a minute," answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something
being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A
small
woman in her 80s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a
pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie.
By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one
had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There
were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In
the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.
"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase to
the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked
slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness.
"It's nothing," I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I
would want my mother treated."
"Oh, you're such a good boy," she said.
When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Could you
drive
through downtown?"
"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.
"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a
hospice."
I looked in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were glistening.
"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't
have
very long."
I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you like
me
to take?" I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the
building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove
through
the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were
newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had
once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she'd
ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit
staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm
tired. Let's go now."
We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building,
like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a
portico.
Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were
solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been
expecting her.
I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was
already seated in a wheelchair.
"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.
"Nothing," I said.
"You have to make a living," she answered.
"There are other passengers," I responded.
Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me
tightly.
"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."
I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a
door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.
I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in
thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman
had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What
if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?
On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important
in
my life. We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great
moments. But great moments often catch us unaware - beautifully wrapped in
what others may consider a small one.
People may not remember exactly what you did, or what you said, but they
will always remember how you made them feel.
- taken from email.
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