Another one-shot.

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Rosie's face faded into the gray winter light of the sitting room. She dozed in the armchair that Carter had bought for her on their third anniversary. The room was warm and quiet. Outside it was snowing lightly.

At a quarter past one the mailman turned the corner onto Allen Street. He was behind on his route, not because of the snow, but because it was Valentine's Day and there was more mail than usual. He passed Rosie's house without looking up. Twenty minutes later he climbed back into his truck and drove off.

Rosie stirred when she heard the mail truck pull away, then took off her glasses and wiped her mouth and eyes with the handkerchief she always carried in her sleeve. She pushed herself up using the arm of the chair for support, straightened slowly and smoothed the lap of her dark green housedress.

Her slippers made a soft, shuffling sound on the bare floor as she walked to the kitchen. She stopped at the sink to wash the two dishes she had left on the counter after lunch. Then she filled a plastic cup halfway with water and took her pills. It was one forty-five.

There was a rocker in the sitting room by the front window. Rosie eased herself into it. In a half-hour the children would be passing by on their way home from school. Rosie waited, rocking and watching the snow.

The boys came first, as always, running and calling out things Rosie could not hear. Today they were making snowball as they went, throwing them at one another. One snowball missed and smacked hard into Rosie's window. She jerked backward, and the rocker slipped off the edge of her oval rag rug.

The girl dilly-dallied after the boys, in twos and threes, cupping their mittened hands over their mouths and giggling. Rosie wondered if they were telling each other about the Valentines they had received at school. One pretty girl with long brown hair stopped and pointed to her face behind the drapes, suddenly self-conscious. When she looked out again, the boys and girls were gone. It was cold by the window, but she stayed there watching the snow cover the children's footprints.

A florist's truck turned onto Allen Street. Rosie followed it with her eyes. It was moving slowly. Twice it stopped and started again. Then the driver pulled up in front of Mrs. Brown's house next door and parked. Who would be sending Mrs. Brown flowers? Rosie wondered. Her daughter in Wisconsin? Or her brother? No, her brother was very ill. It was probably her daughter. How nice of her.

Flowers made Rosie think of Carter and, for a moment, she let the aching memory fill her. Tomorrow was the fifteenth. Eight months since Carter's death.

The flower mans was knocking at Mrs. Brown's front door. He carried a long white and green box and a clipboard. No one seemed to be answering. Of course! It was Friday - Mrs. Brown quilted at the church on Friday afternoons. The delivery man looked around then started toward Rosie's house.

Rosie shoved herself out of the rocker and stood close to the drapes. The man knocked. Her hands trembled as she straightened her hair. She reached her front hall on the third knock.

"Yes?" she said, peering around a slightly opened door. "Good afternoon, ma'am," the man said. "Would you take a delivery for your neighbor?"

"Yes," Rosie answered, pulling the door wide open. "Where would you like me to put them?" the man asked politely as he strode in.

"In the kitchen, please. On the table." The man looked big to Rosie. She could hardly see his face between his green cap and full beard. Rosie was glad he left quickly, and she locked the door after him.

The box was as long as the kitchen table. Rosie drew near to it and bent over to read the lettering: "NATALIE'S Flowers for Every Occasion." The rich smell of roses engulfed her. She closed her eyes and took slower breaths, imagining yellow roses. Carter had always chosen yellow. "To my sunshine," she would say, presenting the extravagant bouquet. Carter would laugh delightedly, kiss Rosie on the forehead, then take Rosie's hands in hers and sing to Rosie: "You Are My Sunshine."

It's was five o'clock when Mrs. Brown knocked at Rosie's front door. Rosie was still at the kitchen table. The flower box was now open though, and she held the roses on her lap, swaying slightly and stroking the delicate yellow petals. Mrs. Brown knocked again, but Rosie did not hear her, and after several minutes the neighbor left.

Rosie rose a little while later, laying the flowers on the kitchen table. Her cheeks were flushed. She dragged a stepstool across the kitchen floor and lifted a white porcelain vase from the top corner cabinet. Using a drinking glass, she filled the vase with water, then tenderly arranged the roses and greens, and carried them into the sitting room.

She was smiling as she reached the middle of the room. She turned slightly and began to dip and twirl in small slow circles. She stepped lightly, gracefully, around the sitting room, into the kitchen, down the hall, back again. She danced till her knees grew weak, and then she dropped into the armchair and slept.

At a quarter past six, Rosie awoke with a start. Someone was knocking on the back door this time. It was Mrs. Brown.

"Hello, Rosie," Mrs. Brown said. "How are you? I knocked at five and was a little worried when you didn't come. Were you napping?" She chattered as she wiped her snowy boots on the welcome mat and stepped inside. "I just hate snow, don't you? The radio says we might have six inches by midnight, but you can never trust them, you know. Do you remember last winter when they predicted four inches, and we hand twenty-one? Twenty-one! And they said we'd have a mild winter this year. Ha! I don't think it's been over zero in weeks. Do you know my oil bill was $263 last month? For my little house!"

Rosie was only half-listening. She had remembered the roses suddenly and was turning hot with shame. The empty flower box was behind her on the kitchen table. What would she say to Mrs. Brown?

"I don't know how much longer I can keep paying the bills. If only Alfred, God bless him, had been as careful with money as your Carter. Carter! Oh, good heavens! I almost forgot about the roses." Rosie's cheeks burned. She began to stammer an apology, stepping aside to reveal the empty box.

"Oh, good," Mrs. Brown interrupted. "You put the roses in water. Then you saw the card. I hope it didn't startle you to see Carter's handwriting. Carter had asked me to bring you the roses the first year, so I could explain for her. She didn't want to alarm you. Her 'Rose Trust,' I think she called it. She arranged it with the florist last April. Such a good girl, your Carter..."

But Rosie had stopped listening. Her heart was pounding as she picked up the small white envelope she had missed earlier. It had been lying beside the flower box all this time. With trembling hands, she removed the card.

"To my sunshine," it said. "I love you with all my heart. Try to be happy when you think of me. Love, Carter."

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