The deliveryman had already turned toward his van when Mary called after him. “Are you sure these are for me?” He checked the name and smiled. “They’re yours, ma’am.” Inside her home, Mary counted the enormous bouquet of yellow roses. Fifty-six. Her hands trembled. Today would have been her fifty-sixth wedding anniversary.
Mary had been married to James for only two days before he left for war. At the train station, he promised that on their next anniversary he would bring her the biggest bouquet of yellow roses she had ever seen. Before he could return, his unit came under attack, and James was reported missing and presumed dead.
Mary never remarried. For fifty-six years, she carried the memory of the young husband she had lost. Then, hidden among the roses, she discovered a badly folded paper flower. It was crooked and ugly, but the letter “J” was penciled on its stem. She knew immediately who had made it.
