Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: MOURNING / MORNING (02/02/23)
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TITLE: The Card | Previous Challenge Entry
By Yvonne Blake
02/06/23 -
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I called Daddy every morning and visited him at least two or three times each week. He didn’t drive anymore, so we went to the dump, the bank, the grocery store, and anywhere else he wanted to go. I have to admit, I really enjoyed those days that we spent together.
Often, even in those early days, he’d say, “Will you do something with the cards?” Mom went to heaven on November 5th, and Daddy's birthday was on the 11th. My parents had lived all over the country, and they had even served as missionaries in the Caribbean. They knew hundreds of people. That meant many friends and family were sending him cards - lots of cards, sympathy cards and birthday cards. And when December came, so did Christmas cards, too. I’d sort them in piles: birthday, sympathy, and Christmas.
He hollered from across the room. “Save the ones with letters and notes in a special pile . . . and the ones that are handmade.”
“Yes, I can do that, Daddy.” I sorted through them again, putting some in a special pile.
Sometimes, I’d visit, and see that he hadn’t checked the mailbox for a few days, or the mail would be on the kitchen table unopened.
“I’m tired of reading all these cards,” he complained. “They make me sadder. Throw them away.”
I couldn’t do that. Some included cash. I read each one to him, and he’d stare at them, his eyes filling with tears. After a while, I carried them to the big desk and there found the piles all scattered about. He had been looking through them.
“Do something about those cards.” He reminded me, “Don’t forget to save out the special ones.”
“Yes, Daddy, I can do that.” Most of them only had a signature beneath the sentiment. “Do you want me to toss the ones that are not special?”
“No, keep them all. Everybody loved your mama. Don’t throw any away.”
This went on week after week. Each time I visited, the growing number of cards would be scattered on the desk. I’d sort them again, knowing that I’d be repeating it in a few days.
One winter morning, Daddy called me when I was barely awake. He was sobbing.“You won’t believe it, won't believe it." My mind raced to guess what could be wrong. He finally calmed down enough to explain. "I couldn’t sleep last night. I missed Mama so much. I felt guilty that I didn’t get a chance to really say “good bye.” I know, I said it when she went into surgery, but I didn’t know it was forever. I didn’t tell her that I loved her. I didn’t give her a kiss because of all the tubes.”
“Daddy, I know she understood.”
He sighed. “Let me finish. Well, I couldn’t sleep last night. I wanted her to know that I loved her. Then I realized that I could talk to God, and He could tell her for me. So I prayed. After that, I felt better and fell asleep.”
I could hear his shuddered breaths between words. “This morning, I was looking through the cards. . .
I thought, "Cards! What is it about those cards?"
He continued. “I looked through all of them, all the way to the bottom. I found a red envelope which didn’t come in the mail. My name is written on it with Mama’s handwriting.” He started crying again. “It is an anniversary card that she gave to me last summer, but I don’t remember seeing it recently.” I heard him blow his nose. “Do you remember it?”
I hadn’t. I had handled those cards dozens of times, but I never saw a red envelope from Mama.
“Listen to this.” I heard paper rattling as he took it out of the envelope. “This is what the card says.
I loved you yesterday, and I will tomorrow.
Love goes on and never ends, never.
Even in heaven, I will love you forever.
Now I was crying too.
Daddy whispered, “God gave her my message, and she sent one back.”
He never asked me to sort through the cards again.
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