She woke up too early- anxiety does that to her sometimes. It’s no use, no getting any more sleep, so she gets up, bathrobe on. Well, at least she’ll have more time to relax with the newspaper before work. She has a comforting routine, and right now she longs to curl up in the reading chair, soft fleecy blanket over her, tea on the table beside, perhaps a cat in her lap, reading the paper -comics, advice column, editorials, front page, international, special sections, metro- always in that order. But its probably too early for the newspaper. She puts the kettle on and goes to check.
Opening the front door , she steps out just to see. Feels cool concrete under her hot, bare feet. Sees the night-rain soaked front walk. No paper.
She stands there, takes a quiet moment to feel the moist air. Colors are grayed, muted in the dusky light. Foggy halos circle the streetlights still lit.
A quiet car glides by, slows at her house, and an arm emerges from the open window and flings the newspaper out to her sidewalk. “Thank you!,” she calls out. “Good morning!” A hearty young voice calls back, as the car continues down the block, never stopping.
For thirty-odd years, the Christmas card tucked into her December newspaper has been signed ‘Moses Cobblaugh.’ Who is this then? She wonders, Moses’ grandson? Great-nephew?
And, she wonders, how many unseen helpers support her every day, and provide her comfort?