Trials of Life

The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree. Frustrated by life with good reason to frown, for the world was intended to drag me down.

And if that weren’t enough to ruin my day, a young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play. He stood right before me with his head hanging down and said with great excitement, “Look what I found!”

In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight, with its petals (花瓣) all worn — not enough rain, or too little light. Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play, I faked a small smile and then turned to the other side.

But instead of leaving, he sat next to my side and placed the flower to his nose and declared, “It really smells pretty and it’s beautiful, too. That’s why I picked it. Here, it’s for you.”

The weed before me was dying or dead. Not vibrant of colors, orange, yellow or red. But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave .So I reached for the flower, and replied, “Just what I need.” But instead of placing the flower in my hand, he held it in mid-air without reason or plan. It was then that I noticed for the first time, that weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind.

I heard my voice quiver, and my tears shone like the sun.

Perhaps from his heart, he’d been blessed with true sight.

You know how when big things in your life aren’t going well and the little things bother you more? That happened to me last year. Like many people during the pandemic, my husband, Paul, was laid off. I was still working, but my job was only part-time and would likely be ending soon too. I was worried about money, pandemic and our future.

That’s when our mailboxes really started getting to me. I’d never liked our mailboxes much. They stood at the end of our long driveway, far enough away from our house. Fortunately, I didn’t see them often. The mailboxes had already been in rough shape when we moved in and the paint was faded.

At some point, someone had driven into the pole. It was now bent slightly, making the mailboxes bend, pointing in different directions. Still, because the boxes could hold the mail and the mail carrier wasn’t complaining, there really was no need to replace them.

“I wish we could have better mailboxes,” I found myself thinking as I pulled out of the driveway one day on my way to work. It was just a passing thought. I probably would have forgotten all about it if not for the news we got the next morning.

The next day, my neighbor Ailsa told me a girl drove her car right into the mailboxes and completely knocked them down. Ailsa saw the accident and gave her our number and information. “That certainly wasn’t in our budget,” I thought. Though I wanted new mailboxes, getting them would be expensive. With our income decreasing since Paul’s layoff, this was an expense we didn’t need. I sighed.

However, the next day where our old, rusted mailboxes had once stood were two new shiny mailboxes-one black, one white. Each one had large, neat numbers on the sides, the white mailbox with black numbers and the black one with white numbers. They were beautiful. I sat there, feeling surprised.

I opened one of the mailboxes and found a note.

When we called, the girl’s mother answered.