the gate was old and crooked...half open...with vines wrapped n wound...

the walkway path was uneven and packed with leaves that made a crunchy sound...

the old frame house was weathered...without paint..and the shutters lay on the ground...

the porch was a home for cats of many sizes n colors that skittered around...

i knocked on the windowless door...and after a time there was a faint voice from inside...

“who is it?” “is that you molly ?”...and the door was opened only a few inches wide..

“hello” I said...i moved in down the street...and handed her the pie with a ribbon tied...

she was old...unkempt and glanced down at the sight of a stranger...an sighed

“i thought it was my daughter molly...she's comin home today” glowin with pride...

she took the box in her frail hands...”thank you” as her eyes filled with tears..

she gently pushed the door closed...i waited by the gate as the mailman appears...

i told him the story and said I hoped I had not caused her worry or fears...

he put his hand on my shoulder and said “her daughter molly has been gone for 40 years”...

she died that year...and we never forget the date....every year on the same day....

someone places a red rose by the old wooden gate...

By bsp