ather　came　to　see　me　that　day；　I　asked　them　to　send　her　some。

The　flowers　arrived　just　as　Ann　and　I　were　finishing　supper。

“Another　bouquet　for　you；”　she　said；　laughing。

“No；　not　this　time；”　I　said；　looking　at　the　card。　“These　are　for　you。”

Ann　stared　at　the　blossoms　a　long　time；　not　saying　anything。　She　ran　her　fingers　across　the　pale…blue　ceramic2　bootee　and　lightly　touched　each　of　the　sweetheart　roses　nestled　inside　as　though　trying　to　engrave　them　on　her　memory。

“How　can　I　ever　thank　you？”　she　said　softly。

I　was　almost　embarrassed。　It　was　such　a　little　kindness　on　my　part。　The　son　born　to　my　husband　and　me　that　day　in　1956　turned　out　to　be　our　only　child。　For　nearly　21　years　he　filled　our　lives　with　love　and　laughter；　making　us　feel　plete。　But　on　Easter　morning　in　April　1977；　after　a　long；　painful　battle　with　cancer；　he　died　quietly　in　our　arms。

At　the　funeral　home　I　was　alone　with　my　son　in　a　room　filled　with　the　scent　of　roses；　when　a　delivery　man　brought　in　a　tiny　bouquet。　I　didn’t　read　the　card　until　later；　as　we　rode　to　the　cemetery。　“To　W。　John　Graves；”　the　card　said；　“from　the　boy　who　was　born　with　you　at　Memorial　Hospital；　and　his　mother。”

Only　then　did　I　recognize　the　ceramic　bootee　I　had　given　to　a　sad　young　woman　so　many　years　ago；　now　once　again　filled　with　roses。　Ann　and　I　had　1ong　since　lost　touch。　She　had　never　known　our　son；　never　been　aware　of　his　illness。　She　must　have　read　the　notice　of　his　death　i