I remember a time when I enjoyed checking the mailbox for an unexpected card or letter from a friend. No one writes letters anymore. Cards are sent electronically through Facebook or email. The only things that appears in my mailbox are bills and store adds.

There was a time when you didn’t need to let the recorder pick up phone calls because every one of them was important. Now I’m forced to sign up for the  “No Call” list to avoid solicitors who interrupted every evening meal. While that helped for a while to reduce some unwanted calls, the intrusions returned, especially as I neared the blessed age of Medicare eligibility.

The changes to social media fill me with joy and sorrow. I miss the personal warmth of a hand-written letter or a phone call from a friend who just wants to chat. Still, the instant gratification of finding needed information with the click of my keyboard makes life easier, especially for a writer.

If you can relate to this short story, please hit the like button or leave me a message with your own thoughts. I’d love to hear from you.

 

 

I Must Have Blinked

 

Dark clouds and Monday blues. Just the excuse I need to avoid starting painting woodwork. Blue masking tape’s been in place for months, yet the paint’s lid remains sealed. Procrastinator? Yes.

The phone rings. I check the clock. Right on time. The recorder picks up. Same message. Karen Adams says she can help me, but I ignore her offer. Instead, I grab a dust cloth and move from curio cabinet to coffee table searching for a distraction. A photo album, covered in a fine layer of dust, calls to me and I settle down on the couch.

The miniscule date on the photo reveals May 1957. We’re at the zoo. One brother on each side, pudgy little girl in the middle holding a wicker picnic basket. I glance at the numerous snapshots with the scalloped edges and close my eyes. My grandmother’s holding the Brownie box camera and urging us to smile. The corners of my lips curve up. Happens every time.

The next page moves me forward a decade. Mom, dad, three brothers and a sister on the steps of my grandparent’s front porch. I’m wearing a black and white taffeta dress. Easter service, dressed in our best. Happy family, eager to hunt eggs and snitch a few jelly beans before chicken dinner. It must be 1964 because my little brother looks about 4 years old. He’s still alive, happy and full of life.

I flip the page to see more. It’s empty. Discolored photo sleeves void of any clue another brother and sister joined the family. No trips to the zoo, no graduation pictures, no proms, no hint that life continued after the death of a child. Cancer does ugly things to families.

The gloomy day needs no support, so I close the book and select another album. The phone interrupts my thoughts. I check the clock. Right on schedule. This time it’s Susan, her offer similar to Karen’s. “Call me back at 1-800-555-1234.” The calls are not welcomed. They’ve become irritating. “Mind your own business” I chastise to no one.

I refocus and am transported to another life, one with a husband and daughter. A snapshot of them fishing near a crystal clear lake. Happy family outings. Smiles without guilt for being alive. Pages filled with tree, flowers, mountains and rivers, family and friends. Years of happiness. I feel my mood elevating, just as the sun breaks through dark clouds.

I close the album and place it on top of the one from our twenty-fifth anniversary. Perhaps there will be a 50^th someday. I walk past the recorder and hit the delete button. The huge, undisturbed mound of pamphlets awaits my attention. Medicare decisions must be made, but not today, I have a few more weeks before the 65. I shake my head and wonder how that day arrived so soon. I must have blinked.