Shelly Haskins. Fifty-four years old. She’s been at that window since her kids were little. Since 1998. She knew George. She came to his funeral. She brought a casserole and cried harder than some of his own cousins.
She always asks about my roses.
“How are the Peace roses this year, Dot?”
“Blooming like crazy, Shelly. I’ll bring you some.”
And I always do. A big bunch, wrapped in wet newspaper. She keeps them in a coffee can on the counter by her window until they drop their petals.
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