My grandmother lived for the first crocuses. She’d call me every early March to say they’d broken through.
This year the thaw came in February. Warm wind. I saw yellow and purple pushing through frozen dirt on my mail route.
But her number just rings now. I still dial it sometimes, just to hear her old message. “Leave it after the beep, hon.”
I found a program from my niece’s school play in my bag. I’d meant to give it to Grandma. She would have wanted the songs.
She used to host a card-game circle every Tuesday. Gin rummy. I’d stop by after my route and eat their leftover cookies.
That room is quiet now. The chairs are stacked. The cards are in a drawer.
I’m engaged now. We’re saving for a small wedding. She would have loved the ring. She would have cried.
This spring came too early for her to see. But I saw them for her. I told her on the voicemail. I hope the machine still records.