A white delivery van went past the house, held steady at thirty miles an hour, and turned onto Elm Street without stopping.

Grace pointed to the brick path that ran up from the sidewalk.

“Look at those orange marigolds by your porch steps,” she said.

“They made it through that early frost last week.”

“They sure did,” I said.

I rested my head against the painted wood of the rocking chair and took a slow, deep breath of the still autumn air.

There were no urgent red stamps on the envelope lying on the little hall table behind me.