[This page has been torn from a spiral notebook; the shredded holes haven't been removed from the left-hand side.]
Town today. Mrs. Lewis thought it'd be nice to walk. I said no, you're almost eighty, ma'am. That made her mad, a little bit, and she went off sulking for an hour. I said I'd go in the car by myself, and got my hat and gloves. She came out to the car just as I was leaving, and she got in without saying anything. I could tell she was still mad at me, but I didn't mind, and after a while she didn't either. The drive was pretty, and I took it slow with the windows down for the cherry blossoms in the Ibsen field. Mrs. Lewis has always loved the cherry blossoms, even if she doesn't care for the Ibsen's. She doesn't say much about them, and she's always civil when we meet them after church, so it might be hard to tell that she thinks they're not noble people. She did say that, one time, Christoff Ibsen isn't a noble man. She did say that. I don't know what she meant by it, and I haven't tried to ask her.
But the cherry blossoms she's always loved. I drove so slow, she said we should stop so she could cut a sprig. She did it herself, even though she had to reach a bit and looked uncomfortable, but she also looked pretty pleased with herself when she sat down in the car again. There now, she said, settling the flowers in her lap. That was all she said, looking right at me, and I could tell she thought she had beat me out for what I said about her being eighty. That was all she did, though, and I was happy to let it alone
But town wasn't too cheerful anyway. The cherry blossoms were the best part of the trip. Mrs. Lewis got her letters, to save the postman the trouble, she said, and she opened them in the car like she always does. Turns out her cousin Isobel just passed away, which I think shouldn't have surprised any sensible person at all. Isobel was herself eighty-two, and sick for longer than I've known Mrs. Lewis and Ms. Sinead. But you'd think it was her own death told beforehand when Mrs. Lewis finished the note. It sat in her lap, slowly covering up in blossoms, while she stared out the window and didn't say a word. I started to feel bad that I had said that this morning about her being so old, even though it didn't make any sense that we would walk to town. I'm not young either. Maybe I should have said something about that instead.
I said we should stop for beignets at Frenchie's, which I hoped would take her mind off her troubles. She said okay, and we talked to Frenchie herself for a little while, or she talked to us, which is probably the better thing to say. Mrs. Lewis was quiet, and though she tried to look calm, I could tell her mind wasn't on the place or the food or Frenchie. We didn't stay that long, and I took home a beignet for Ms. Sinead and left. We were going to go to the haberdashery, but Mrs. Lewis said she was tired, so we went home instead. When we got there, Mrs. Lewis thanked me in the quiet way she gets when she doesn't want to talk anymore, and went inside to her back room. I watched her pass the stairs, and noticed that she didn't look at them on purpose. It was a mess, at first, trying to convince her she couldn't take them the way she used to. Now she's settled in alright in the old back parlor, but every now and then I catch her glaring at the stairs and at me and Ms. Sinead when she thinks we don't see. This time she didn't, just passed them by while she took off her gloves and shifted the Ibsen sprig from hand to hand.
I watched her go. She left a trail of pink blossoms, and they drifted a little in the open window breeze.
[There is a date in the upper corner, but it is too smudged to be made out clearly.]
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