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ather came to see me that day； I asked them to send her some。
The flowers arrived just as Ann and I were finishing supper。
“Another bouquet for you；” she said； laughing。
“No； not this time；” I said； looking at the card。 “These are for you。”
Ann stared at the blossoms a long time； not saying anything。 She ran her fingers across the pale…blue ceramic2 bootee and lightly touched each of the sweetheart roses nestled inside as though trying to engrave them on her memory。
“How can I ever thank you？” she said softly。
I was almost embarrassed。 It was such a little kindness on my part。 The son born to my husband and me that day in 1956 turned out to be our only child。 For nearly 21 years he filled our lives with love and laughter； making us feel plete。 But on Easter morning in April 1977； after a long； painful battle with cancer； he died quietly in our arms。
At the funeral home I was alone with my son in a room filled with the scent of roses； when a delivery man brought in a tiny bouquet。 I didn’t read the card until later； as we rode to the cemetery。 “To W。 John Graves；” the card said； “from the boy who was born with you at Memorial Hospital； and his mother。”
Only then did I recognize the ceramic bootee I had given to a sad young woman so many years ago； now once again filled with roses。 Ann and I had 1ong since lost touch。 She had never known our son； never been aware of his illness。 She must have read the notice of his death i
