The house was quiet when I walked inside.
I placed my handbag on the kitchen table.
Then I took off my shoes.
My feet were sore.
I had been standing and walking for most of the afternoon.
I poured myself a glass of water.
The landline sat beside the wall.
It hadn't rung all day.
I looked at it and smiled.
I had spent forty-two years learning how to live without certain conversations.
But I had never stopped liking the sound of that telephone.
I walked into the bedroom and changed out of my navy dress.
I carefully removed my mother's pearls.
The clasp had become stiff again.
I placed them in their little box.
Then I hung the dress in the closet.
I stood there for a moment.
Behind the vacuum cleaner was the Christmas stocking box.
I pulled it forward.
I didn't know why I wanted to look at it.
Perhaps because I had been thinking about the past.
Perhaps because the invitation had brought back so many old memories.
Or perhaps I simply wanted to see something familiar.
I opened the lid.
There they were.
The stockings.
I counted them.
One.
Two.
Three.
I continued until I reached the last one.
Then I counted again.
I smiled.
I had always counted them.
Some had little names sewn into the fabric.
Some were homemade.
Some had been given to me by people who no longer lived nearby.
I remembered the first Christmas after the little boy came into my house.
He had looked at the stockings.
He had asked whether one of them belonged to him.
I told him he could choose.
He stood there for a long time.
Then he pointed to one near the middle.
It was red.
The name was written in uneven letters.
I had made it for him.
He touched the fabric carefully.
Then he asked whether he could keep it.
I told him it was his.
He smiled.
That smile had stayed with me.
I sat on the floor beside the box.
The house was quiet.
I thought about the message Bonnie had written.
Come see what a real family looks like.
I thought about the birthday party.
The three sons.
The photographs.
The cake.
The balloons.
Then I looked at the stockings.
I understood something I hadn't fully understood before.
A family wasn't created in one afternoon.
It wasn't proven by a birthday photograph.
It wasn't measured by how many children stood beside a man.
It was built slowly.
One ordinary day at a time.
A child asking whether there would be breakfast.
A telephone call asking for advice.
A school meeting.
A Christmas stocking.
A ride to the doctor.
A person coming home late and knowing somebody would still leave the porch light on.
Those were the things that had made my life full.
I had counted the stockings because I wanted to make sure nobody was forgotten.
That habit had followed me for years.
And perhaps I had been counting people in other ways too.
I had counted the names on my telephone list.
I had counted the chairs around my table.
I had counted the people who said yes when I asked them to come.
Not because I needed to show Garland anything.
Because I wanted to remember how fortunate I was.
I closed the box.
Then I put it back in the closet.
The next morning, I woke up early.
My knees were stiff.
My coffee tasted a little bitter.
The tomatoes needed attention.
I went outside with my watering can.
The garden looked ordinary.
A few leaves had turned yellow.
One tomato had fallen onto the soil.
I picked it up.
Then I watered the plants.
The day continued.
I swept the kitchen.
I washed the cups.
I checked the mailbox.
There was a grocery advertisement and another bill.
Nothing important.
Around lunchtime, the telephone rang.
I answered.
"Hello?"
It was one of my guests.
She wanted to know whether I had arrived home safely.
I told her I had.
We talked about the party.
She laughed about the cake.
Then she asked whether I thought Garland had enjoyed his birthday.
I smiled.
"I suppose he did."
She paused.
"Do you think you'll see him again?"
I looked through the kitchen window.
"I don't know."
We spoke for another few minutes.
Then we said goodbye.
I returned the receiver to its cradle.
I didn't feel the need to call Garland.
I didn't feel the need to send him a letter.
I didn't feel the need to explain anything else.
That evening, Ernestine came over.
She brought a container of food.
I put the kettle on.
We sat at the kitchen table.
She asked whether I had slept well.
I told her I had.
Then she looked toward the hall closet.
"Did you count them?"
I smiled.
"Of course."
She laughed.
"Some things never change."
I looked at my sister.
"That's not always a bad thing."
She nodded.
Then she reached across the table and took my hand.
We sat quietly for a while.
Neither of us needed to fill the silence.
Click here to continue reading: PART 19: A Telephone Call From Garland’s House Reached Me Several Days Later, And I Had to Decide Whether the Past Deserved Another Conversation
The Birthday Invitation That Arrived Forty-Two Years After My Marriage Ended Had One Cruel Sentence Written at the Bottom
Part 18 of 20
