She sat quietly in her antique rocking chair, keeping an eye on the neighborhood. It was all she ever did; all she’s ever known.
She pulled her cardigan tight. There was a chill, but she wouldn’t dare shut the bedroom window. Her penance for a half-century old accident.
Albert had once climbed that outdoor trellis for her. No small feat. He picked fresh wildflowers too. But then Father burst into the bedroom – shotgun in hand – and spoiled everything.
Back out the window her young suitor fell along with his wildflower bouquet.
He still visits her though, whispering her name…
“Evelyn…Evelyn…”
The Weekday One Hundred 