Every morning begins the same way for me: the creak of the floorboards under my feet, the smell of coffee, and the quiet rustle of calendar pages as I cross out another day. My house in Denwitty is old, like most of the houses in our town—two stories high, with chipped paint on the facade and a creaky porch. It has witnessed sixty-five years of my life.
My name is Nella Hammond. I’ve worked at the local post office for twenty years, sorting the letters and packages that come into our little town. No, it’s not the job I dreamed of when I was young, but it’s kept me afloat since Earl, my husband, died.
He passed away five years ago. A heart attack took him so quickly that I didn’t even have time to say goodbye. That Wednesday morning, I got up at six as usual, made coffee and oatmeal, and turned on the radio.
The announcer mumbled something about fuel prices going up. News like that used to make me anxious. Now I’ve learned to ignore what I can’t change.
“Another day, Earl,” I said, looking at his picture on the kitchen table—Earl grinning as he showed off the huge trout he caught on Lake Chesco. Fishing was one of his few weaknesses. Otherwise, Earl was frugal to the point of miserliness.
“Every penny counts, Nella,” he’d say, scrutinizing the electric bill or refusing a new shirt because the old one was still wearable. Thanks to his frugality, we had a small savings—nothing grandiose, twenty-eight thousand dollars in a bank account—and a house whose mortgage had long been paid off. To many people that might seem like a small thing.
To me, it was a safety cushion for illness or other unforeseen circumstances. After finishing my coffee, I put on my postal worker’s uniform, a light-blue shirt with an emblem on the pocket. Twenty minutes later I was standing at the sorting table in our small post office.
“Good morning, Nella,” Doris said. She’s the only coworker who shares my morning shift. Doris is ten years younger than me, but she’s already complaining of arthritis in her fingers.
“How are you today?”
“The usual,” I said, pulling on my work gloves. “Coffee, radio, and talking to my husband’s picture. I guess I’m becoming that crazy old lady the kids talk about.”
Doris laughed.
“You’re far from crazy—just peculiar.”
I smiled. I like that nobody in our little crew takes life too seriously. We crack jokes while we sort the mail, and the day goes faster.
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